The Edge of War's End
by Enemy Of Innocence
Summary: Sansa is alone in Winterfell, so Bran orders Tyrion north for diplomatic purposes...not to fall in love with a queen. [Post Season 8]
1. One

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** I have no idea why I'm writing this. I've never read the books, and I've skipped through parts of the show. However, I have a great and terrible love for Sansa/Tyrion. They're the best characters in the universe as far as I'm concerned. Sorry if I get a few details off. Tell me I'm wrong, and I will revise to accommodate the canon where possible.

This begins a few months after the show's end, so Jaime is, unfortunately, still dead (no matter how wasteful of an ending his character had).

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_**Chapter**__** 1**__**:**_

_Tyrion_

* * *

Business as usual. What a sorry way to end his days.

Not that he was complaining.

As honorable as he'd thought he could be the last night he'd freed his brother, Tyrion would always prefer living. Once again subjected to the weight of guiding a ruler, being hand to someone like the three-eyed raven made the job tolerable.

Barely.

The job would never be easy, but at least it had saved his life.

The Last War had somehow overshadowed The Great War in the scale of horror. Occasionally, Tyrion thought it had simply been a nightmare. The rest of the time, he woke up in thick layers of sweat. Reliving that long night would ensure he would never rest again. What good was rest without someone to share a bed with?

Another side effect of the war was a lack of passion.

His love for the Dragon Queen had always been inevitable. Beauty, an unyielding fire burning at her eyes, and a silver tongue was the perfect package for a depraved imp like him. This love had ruined him. He'd betrayed her at the last hour. Everything she'd ever desired he'd helped deliver. No matter the cost—even his own reason and sanity—was a price he could afford.

Daenerys' greatest mercy was loving Jon Snow instead of him in return. Tyrion would not have survived her if he'd known her. Because he was a fool in love. Hells, a fool in everything.

So he drank. Drinking until just before he got totally pissed at night and nursing the bitter hangover the following morning had become a part of his business as usual.

What a waste of life he was now.

Tyrion once was fun. He'd slipped between the sheets of many whores before. There was a new brothel building. He'd visited for only a night. And how humiliating! He was mostly positive that one paid a whore to fuck. Not to sob to while drunk.

So, maybe business was not _so_ usual now.

A knock pulled him from his cynical reverie. "Enter," he called from his desk. A boy emerged from the shadows of the halls beyond the threshold. Tyrion tensed. "I told you I'd throw things at you if you were to deliver anything else!" The sun had set hours ago. Long nights were to be expected as the Hand, but for a week straight?

The boy cringed, using the door as his shield. "S-sorry, Lord Hand!" The boy poked his hand around the door, which muffled his voice as he spoke. "Two letters from the North."

Tyrion stood, nearly falling out of the chair in the process. Stumbling, he rushed toward the door and plucked the letters from the boy's hand. "Good work, boy." The boy winced, but Tyrion grabbed him by the shoulder. "I mean it, though. Come here once more tonight, and I shall have your head."

"Y-yes, sir…"

Letting the child go, Tyrion slammed the door shut, turning around and leaning against it for support. The weight of the letters in his hands nearly crushed his fingers. Turning them over, he saw a name he didn't expect. "Sansa…"

The Queen of Winterfell hadn't yet sent word personally down south. Correspondence had always been through her council, which changed in all three reports from the north. One letter was addressed to the king. The other was his.

Sliding to the floor, Tyrion sighed and set the king's letter beside him while fumbling to rip the paper open.

_My dear friend, Tyrion,_

_I'm pleased with the reports I've seen regarding your promise as His Grace's Hand. Whether true or not, I've prayed to the Seven you not drink yourself silly yet. It is far too early…even for you._

Tyrion's lips curled slightly. Lifting his eyes from her words, he rested his head against the door and sighed. "Ever as proper…and bold." The refined curls of the Queen in the North's penmanship expressed an empathy he probably imagined.

There was a quiet dominance in her writing style. Long red tresses flashed before his eyes. Although his heart still beat, seeing proof of her wellbeing eased tension in Tyrion's chest. Sansa was familiar, and familiar was such a safe concept to him.

_I'm writing to you personally because your guidance is needed in the north. We have an equal ratio of corpses to the living. Winterfell grieves more than we can afford in a time where food has become a luxury._

_With the pack displaced, Brienne in the south, and Lord Royce's return to tend to the Vale, my reign thus far has proven more solitary than I prefer. I recognize the disposition this requests places you in. I regret that I'm not particularly repentant for asking this._

_At the precipice of peace and edge of a war's end, I've learned to seek guidance when I'm at a crossroads. Yours is an opinion I value. Please consider coming north for any period of time for which Bran can spare you. Although under different sovereigns now, the north is still a friend of the south._

_At worse, you cannot come. There are many words I never had the opportunity to share with you since your queen's death. Not to fret. I have to believe your reply will come. There will be other letters. However, permit me to write plainly, if only for this one._

_I will not pretend to be anything with you save myself. I'm not sad that your siblings' died. I recognize my selfishness in saying this. Nevertheless, your sister taught me something of which I shall never let go. While kindness is not always possible as a ruling body, Cersei made me see that compassion is always a choice. _

Tyrion looked away, wiping a tear before it could fall from his eye. Would the pain ever ease? Awkwardly standing, Tyrion narrowed his sights on the last of his wine perched atop his desk. Walking toward it, he pushed the glass next to the bottle away, favoring to nurse the ache with only aid that helped these days.

The last Lannister.

There would be no more tears on the matter. The choices he'd made led to a much better world than he could have hoped to help shape. He didn't deserve his life, but Bran had chosen him. Tyrion had no choice, but to do his best with the thousandth chance at life.

Even if he had no idea what to do with any of it.

_I will always choose compassion. For that, I owe her a great deal. _

_Tyrion, we've not always seen eye-to-eye. For Seven's sake, please do not think I mean your stature! I am a queen now. You're the Hand of the king…We're no longer a helpless wife and drunk husband. I'd say we're equals._

_This letter is much longer than I'd intended. With only the walls with which to speak, I suppose I'm in need of good company. Whatever the outcome of this letter, know that I'm happier knowing you're alive. It could have gone a different way. I believe you saved us all. The North shall never be able to repay the Lannisters._

_Either way, let's start a new game. The rules are simple. Honesty. It matters not how vulgar the reply. I'll start._

_I remember laughter._

_Always your friend,_

_Sansa Stark_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

"_We_ need to rebuild, my king." Tyrion swallowed, looking at Sansa's letter to Bran on the table between them. "You must stay your focus on the realm. Winterfell has won its independence."

"So it must suffer in our silence?" Bran's impassive, soothing voice unnerved the imp.

Tyrion gulped a sip of wine, wiping his mouth and exhaling. "Your Grace, all I'm suggesting is that we send someone in my stead. Need I remind you my sentence was to the role of your Hand."

"Sansa trusts you, Tyrion. No matter whom we send, she will not be receptive to our instruction unless it is you."

Closing his eyes, he prayed for patience the Gods had long since drained. "You were just named, Bran. Drogon is still at large." He shook his hand, gripping the arms of his chair until he nearly lost feeling. "My place has always been King's Landing."

"No," Bran said. "Your place is elsewhere. Where, however, remains to be seen."

Tyrion looked away, the sea beyond the window capturing his attention. "I've been elsewhere, Bran." His eyes grew heavy and vision blurry. "It had good intentions, but disastrous results."

"You must go."

The sound of the ocean trickled in with a period of silence between them. Shaking his head, Tyrion met the king's gaze once more. "Please don't make me go."

Bran stared at him, eyes unreadable and dangerously calm. A smirk bloomed on his lips if it could be called even that. "I'm ordering you to travel north to nurture our relations with Winterfell."

Slamming his fist on the table, Tyrion narrowed his eyes.

"What have you to fear, Tyrion?" Bran sighed. "You've overcome White Walkers, survived a Mad Queen, and secured peace in Westeros. You have all you desired."

"Not all…" Tyrion's shoulders sagged. Falling back in his chair, he dragged his hand over his face, not wanting tears to win this battle.

Bran's mouth stretched. "Maybe you'll discover the rest…or at the very least, what you need."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_You asked for honesty. As you wish._

_I've started many drafts of my reply, so forgive my delay._

_You've crippled my tongue and mind. I am speechless._

_I'm sure you've heard the news of my upcoming visit to the expanse of white lands. My generous king has afforded you five months' time in my dreadful company. I leave by ship with a fine stock of what food, materials, and livestock we can spare in a month._

_Prepare yourself._

_I will hold you to your words. No matter how vulgar, you said! _

_I remember a hot mouth around my cock. __I'm ashamed by the stretch of time I've not revisited such a paradise._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

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**[A/N]**Even though I'm still quite unhappy with the show's end, I wanted to make a canon-compliant "what-if" story. Because Tyrion and Sansa deserve to find each other again.** Please review!**


	2. Two

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** Wow! I really had no idea how much response my story would have in one day! I had time to give you chapter 2 on the same day! I really love your feedback and kind words. I'm honored you're reading.

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_**Chapter 2**__**:**_

_Tyrion_

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_Tyrion,_

_I might cripple your tongue and mind, but you shock me. Being that I'm a Queen, I thought your reply would be more…diplomatic. I scarcely know what could be an appropriate response._

_Regardless, I am pleased you will venture here. The north always remembers. We shall never forget His Grace's kindness._

**_I remember lemon cakes._**

_Sincerely,_

_Queen in the North_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Women would be the death of him.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Queen in the North,_

_I'm sorry if I offended your delicate graces. I humbly ask that you not ask for honesty from me in the future. You obviously are ill-equipped to handle it._

_A bit of free council:_

_If we were equals, you wouldn't sign letters reminding of your pretty titles. Don't make your reign built on lies. It's far too early for that…even for you. _

_**I remember endless stores of wine.** It's a shame MY queen's dragon burnt them to a crisp._

_Not sincerely,_

_Not the Queen in the North_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

What had he done? Writing drunken replies to a queen of a neighboring nation was hardly the best way to begin a tidy foreign relation.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Tyrion,_

_Forgive me. _

_The ghosts of the war still haunt me. Everything you wrote was true. I shall not have my rule based on lies. Lord Baelish taught me many lessons. I want no part of how he ruined Westeros._

_I have little to say aside from a thousand apologies._

_I trust few people. Although our family histories clash, I do picture a day where both of us speak freely. I might have pushed myself too far by claiming I could handle your life experience. Regardless of what I've seen, my young experience holds me hostage. I hope to be free someday._

_I value your counsel._

_**I remember my mother brushing my hair.** I miss her so._

_Always,_

_Sansa_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Tenderness.

Sansa's letter brushed against the emptiness in him, permitting a heavy sigh. He shook his head, unable to contain the way the words affected him. She was a daughter in need of her mother's guidance.

Sansa didn't need him.

Yet, the world was cruel due to the decisions of a deranged few. The rest of them had to live with the consequences. In a different world, she would have married a kind prince, virginity still intact.

The queen in the north was a woman. No longer a child. But she was still a lady. That was a miracle after the things he'd heard…the things she'd alluded to him.

He would not deprave her further. The world had done enough.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_To make my inevitable visit more tolerable, I want to convey my sincerest apologies. My letter was disgusting. There's no excuse for such behavior to a lady of your caliber._

_Admittedly, I've never been friends with a proper lady. The company of whores is more my level. It's all I'm worthy of. _

_That you consider me a friend is a privilege I know not what to do with. If I make you feel uncomfortable, you may command me how best I can remedy my…life experience. _

_You will receive this letter a few days before I arrive. We shall talk more then._

_**I remember my niece.** I miss her so._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The rocking carriage kept him awake. Winter had yet to ebb. He would never miss the foggy exhales the north made visible. No matter how many furs Bran had stocked him with, the cold paired with the fact he'd decidedly sworn off wine until he knew where he stood with the queen made for a decidedly unhappy Hand.

The caravan traversed through the north from White Harbor. Thankfully, he was alone. There was solace in his loneliness. He could make out words of those he had killed. For the moment, flashes of Varys' banter invaded his mind, casually reminding him of his true nature.

No woman would ever hold his heart or mind. Following Daenerys until the bitter end would be a sin for which he'd never atone. He'd trained his mind to steel against the delicacies of the fairer sex. Besides, who could ever love an imp who'd killed two of three of his loves?

Jaime should have lived. He should have stayed north with Brienne, but leave it to Jaime to ruin his future. It's what Lannisters did best.

Tyrion's gaze fell to his hands. These hands killed, pleasured, and hurt others. In no realm or afterlife could he be considered good.

The carriage hit a rock, breaking his dark thoughts. "What a pessimist I've become…" Peeking his head out of the door's window, he found a guard escorting him on horseback. "How much longer?"

The pale man looked to him, pointing ahead. "Look there."

"Excellent! A warm fire awaits us soon, then!" Tyrion examined the castle in the distance, passing abandoned homes and buildings along the way. The haste with which Daenerys insisted they leave for Dragonstone prevented him to really gauge the magnitude of damage Winterfell suffered.

Along the path they traveled, not bodies littered the way. Thank the Seven. From his distance, Tyrion saw parts of the castle still amongst the rubble of battle. Despite having months between that night and now, hardly any effort had been spared for the rebuilding of their capital.

The closer the caravan pulled him along, the more brutality he saw. Snow covered the horrors only so well. The piles of burnt corpses still lay to waste in the bitter temperatures.

Things were worse than what little she'd alluded to in her letters. Tyrion gasped, pulling his head back into the comfort of the carriage. Closing his eyes, he counted to whatever number he could remember. A stabbing pinch jabbed his chest with each breath. Flinching against the seat, he gripped at his chest, pulling the fabric trying to get more in with each breath.

Coughing, the Hand swallowed and shook his head back and forth. "Not again…"

A ringing burst in his ears, causing him to open his eyes, widening as his brows dipped together. His next breath shuddered out of him until he was out of air in his lungs. "Stop this, Tyrion. You're meeting Sansa in a moment. You have no time for this nonsense."

Within a moment, his body eased. He dropped his hand and tipped his head back against the carriage wall. "What I life I was spared to live."

The carriage stopped, and he was slow to stand, surveying the pelts and odds and ends he'd have to inventory later. Wiping his brow, moisture dampened the glove cloaking his appendages. "Fuck…" Patting his sleeve against his face, he did his best to dry his skin. When he felt ready, he said, "Open."

The carriage door opened swiftly, and he stepped down the steps. Once his feet hit the ground, he cast his eyes upward, immediately gravitating to the queen. Gulping, he plastered his best easy grin and pressed forward.

"Your Grace." Tyrion bowed, feeling several watchful eyes on him all around. Hearing snow crunch under shoes, he stood at his laughable height and exhaled as Sansa approached him. Her cheeks were more hollow than the Dragon's pit. The sharpness of her jawline paired with the bags under her eyes made her appear more world-weary and desperate. Despite the increased volume of her furs, she had thinned out. She was starving.

"My Lord," Sansa greeted her tone flat and voice low. "I'm pleased to see you; however, I must insist we continue within the castle at once."

"Of course, your grace."

Sansa looked to two men he did not recognize and said, "Please see to what we discussed. I will be unavailable for the rest of the day. Ensure my people are fed well."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Lord Tyrion, please follow me."

Sansa led him through the ruined castle until they arrived at her private study. The fire was already blazing, ready for their meeting. "I've located what I've been informed is our best wine for you, Tyrion. I know how uneasy the north makes you."

"Why aren't you eating?" Tyrion stepped toward her, causing her to straighten her spine.

Sansa tensed as he approached. "I do eat."

Tyrion reached for her hand, immediately feeling warmth there he hadn't expected. She'd taken off her gloves. His eyes lowered to their joined hands, gasping softly. "Apologies, Sansa," he said, eyes lowering to the side.

"No need to apologize, Tyrion. I'm honored you're concerned for my wellbeing."

Exhaling, hoping to calm his racing pulse, he stared at her. "I'm more than concerned. If things were this bad, you should have said so."

"My people have no home, their possessions are scattered amongst rubble and bodies of their families, and there is barely any food to spare." Sansa lowered to sit in her chair at the table by the fire. "They've been through enough."

Tyrion approached her, capturing her full attention. Those bright eyes set on him with an intensity he'd never noticed about her. Swallowing, he lifted his gloved hand and cupped her cheek. "You've been through enough."

"I love my people." Her words were a whisper he barely heard.

Nodding, he brushed a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. "And your people love you. You must take care of yourself, Sansa."

Sansa rolled her eyes, looking away and effectively moving away from his touch. "Yes, I'm so deprived from up in my warm room with my warm pelts."

"You agreed to my council, Sansa. You asked for my help." Tyrion lowered his hand and sat across from her at the other chair. Folding his hands in his lap, he looked to her. "You were born to be queen. I knew it from the moment we reunited here some months ago."

Sansa chuckled. "Even while you knew your queen would never let the north have independence?"

Tyrion closed his mouth, finding no words worthy to with which to reply. Shaking his head, looked to the fire, not for the first time missing Daenerys.

"You _loved_ her, didn't you?"

Tyrion's eyes widened, snapping back to her. "Daenerys is no longer _my_ queen. And my feelings or lack thereof for her matter not now."

"I saw it in the crypt, Tyrion. I thought I had nothing left to reason with you then. Yet you plotted with Jon to kill her."

Tyrion's brows dropped. "What do you want to know?" He leaned over, slamming his covered palm on the table, causing her to jump slightly. "Just say it." He exhaled twice until the anger subsided. Looking down, he relaxed, sitting back in his chair. "Please."

"You loved Shae, right?"

"I see no reason to bring her into this."

Sansa reached across the table for his hand, palm hovering before she touched him. Sighing, she settled her hand on the table next to his. "Tyrion, I've only heard rumors of your relations with Shae. Of what happened. I can only imagine the truth is far worse."

Tyrion's eyes watered, a tear dripping from his eyes as he glared at Sansa. "Why does any of this matter?"

Eyes following the stray tear, Sansa reached across the table and wiped her thumb at his cheekbone, catching his tear. Before he could react, she pressed her hand on his. "I grew up under the influence of horrible people. I've tried my best to do good. To be good."

Tyrion didn't move away from her touch. He sat still.

"Within the deepest parts of who I am, Tyrion, I'm exactly like Petyr and Cersei. I am a player without a game, which is dangerous. I need you to promise me something."

Straightening, he took a deep breath. "What else will you ask of me?"

Sansa's eyes became glassy, but she never left his gaze. "I love my people."

Tyrion drew his head back, rushing to stand and move toward her. "What is it you're afraid of?" He searched her eyes, gaze dropping down her face and onto her throat, noticing a gulp. A tear landed on his glove, stealing his attention. When he grazed his hand on her face, he felt her tremble. At once, he knew what she meant. "Becoming them…"

"Arya went west. Jon is exiled. Bran is in King's Landing." Sansa moved to stand, but fell, the chair toppling beside her. "Everyone I trust went away or died in battle. I have no Hand, no real council…"

"No one to tell you you're wrong." Tyrion fell to his knees beside her, almost matching her height while she wept on the stone floor. A ruler needed guidance. The principal was easy to understand. He hadn't been thinking of her when he'd suggested Brienne come to King's Landing. He'd left her defenseless and alone.

She sniffled, wiping her tears away. "I know you care about me like I care for you. You're one of the only few people I trust. You comforted me in the crypt. I thought we'd die." She shook her head and glanced up to him. "I cannot let my people's sacrifice go to waste. If I…_ever_…show signs…"

Tyrion's stomach lurched, the sensation so powerful he needed to steady his abdomen with a fist. His mouth hung open. "You think I could kill you because I've murdered two people I claimed to love." He reached for her face with both hands. "Is this what you're asking of me? Why you asked me to come at all?" When she didn't answer, he shoved himself away. "You said we're equals!" Why did he bring that up?

Sansa remained where she was, ensuring to never break her eyes away. "And we are! You've not denied killing people. You've admitted to whoremongering. I know you believe yourself to be bad whether you admit it here or not."

The flicker of the fire stole his focus. Closing his eyes, he desperately tried to calm the anger riling him up. "I am not having this conversation with you, Sansa. I no longer follow a queen. Do you have any idea what it's like to kill? To watch as someone's life bleed before your very eyes?"

"I do."

Tyrion's body froze. All he could do was meet her morbid gaze with trepidation. His stomach felt fuzzy and his head light.

Sansa's expression hardened. "I watched Ramsay be eaten by his hounds." A tear fell from her eyes. "I even enjoyed it."

Tyrion swallowed, unmoving from where he stood. Shaking his head, he looked away, the sadistic sparkle in her hues too much for him to bear.

"Does this make me a bad person, Tyrion? Will the Seven forgive me?"

Shoulders deflating, he turned to her. "Good people sometimes do bad things, Sansa." Carefully, he walked closer until his shoes brushed the edge of her cloak. Falling to his knees before her, he reached for her hand and kissed the back of it, thumb rubbing the spot for a moment.

She smiled. "You think I'm good?"

Tyrion only nodded. Words were useless underneath the swelling emotion rising in his throat. Smiling, he reached for her, bringing her against him. Stroking her hair, he closed his eyes. She clutched onto fabric at his back with both hands, crying into the fluffy cloak at his shoulder. Swallowing, he tried to stay his shaking hands.

Women would be the death of him.

* * *

**[A/N] **Please be assured, Sansa & Tyrion find each other in this story (not just literally). We'll have a dose of angst where appropriate. The main point I think is interesting is the healing after war ends.** Please review!**


	3. Three

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** That you would spend your day reading my works is unreal. Thank you for sharing this story with me. It's for all of us!

* * *

_**Chapter 3**__**:**_

_Tyrion_

* * *

The legacy of war is peace in a perfect world. No matter how glittering the promise of peace appears, Tyrion knew it to be a dream. The next several days were a test in his patience, to say the least. In captivity, Jon had said that love is the death of duty. Yet the more Tyrion watched over Sansa, the more muddled the sentiment became.

The queen in the north loved her people. Like no other ruler he'd seen or guided, she stood amongst her subjects. Almost like equals.

Tyrion held up his wine glass that caught a ray of sunlight, which highlighted Sansa's fiery red tresses. Twisting the glass with his fingers, the empty glass refracted the light, bending around the queen until she sparkled. The glowing, starved queen picked up a stray stone and handed it to a small girl. Both glistened from physical labor.

To Sansa, duty was an expression of love, a thriving entity that connected her to her people. Standing in a step up from peasant's clothing, her hair fell over her shoulder. Standing to her full height, she wiped her forehead and glanced to him.

Dropping the glass and tensing, Tyrion swallowed and coughed. "Fuck…" He'd been caught staring.

Wasn't he supposed to be watching her? He'd lost track of his purpose for a while. Shaking his head, he stood from the large stone he sat upon to begin meeting her halfway between them.

"You're a queen. Not a peasant, Your Grace."

Sansa's smile disappeared. "I understand; however, without a castle, having a queen is rather pointless."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. He'd banished her first smile in days. Why couldn't he say the perfect thing when it mattered most? Was his mind deteriorating? Was the alcohol finally getting to him in his increasing age?

"Point taken."

Nodding, the queen sighed, muttering, "Good." When she walked toward the castle, Tyrion followed. "Do you have any other comments, My Lord? You may speak your mind on account of my rule and position."

Surveying the rubble and activity of the workers, Tyrion gathered his hands behind him. "While I appreciate you treating your subjects fairly, have you given thought to the possibility of wearing more suitable clothes? Something that doesn't make you blend in with your people?"

Sansa stopped once they got into the castle. A torch burned high above him, providing a dim light for them. Her pale skin almost shined, but _that_ could actually be the alcohol. Her hands were also joined behind her back, shoulders perfectly poised. "I will not risk ruining my last few decent outfits with chores."

In contrast to the late Dragon Queen, Sansa Stark was _tall_. While eyes similar, Winterfell's queen had a white hue mixed in, making them brighter and less grey.

_You want to fuck the Stark Girl_, Bronn had once said years ago when they were married. He had the decency of feeling ashamed due to her youth then. Tyrion was not the same man, nor was she the same terrified girl.

Clearing his throat, he turned, assuming she was retiring to bathe, a sight certainly _not_ aiding in him avoiding the subject of fucking altogether around her. Sansa followed his lead. "What do your accounts look like?"

"We're a nation starving, Tyrion. If we had money, things would be better than they are. I could provide my people with suitable housing and safety once more."

Fixing his eyes on the stone floor ahead, he tightened his mouth before speaking. "Have you thought about a loan?" He barely noticed her stop. Turning, he sighed. "You don't like it."

"The idea isn't outlandish considering our situation; however, I'm hesitant to accept too much on-the-books help. I've pleaded the North's freedom for too long to accept debt as quickly."

"Sansa, there are things you will do alone, and there are things you will do for the good of your people."

"I don't want to be in anyone's debt."

"In your letter, you mentioned Winterfell is in the Lannister's debt," Tyrion countered, eyes wide with a challenge. "What's your rebuttal?"

Sansa brought her hands forward, fidgeting with her nails. "One man isn't all of Westeros." Quiet for only a second, she looked down each direction of the hall. Servants laughed and yawned in the distance. "Let's go somewhere more private." She led them through the halls back to her office. Closing the door, Sansa sat down in front of the fire. "I cannot fail my people."

"Sansa," Tyrion said, opting to sit beside her before the fire. "Failure is a huge part of how you figure out how to win." He peered up at her, stomach twisting. They were too close. Their shoulders almost brushed. Swallowing, he chuckled, the sound airy than totally whole. His breath pushed a stray batch of hair away from Sansa's face.

The crypt hadn't felt like this. He'd kissed her hand. Her delicate hands had willingly curled into his…the same hands that killed Shae and his father. Her bright eyes weren't scared in this dark room. Her flawless features illuminated in the fire's light, half darkened by the shadows of the room. Even starved, Sansa was beautiful.

The twisting expunged the air in his lungs until he felt like he was suffocating. Leaning back, he cleared his throat. Again.

Upon his withdrawal, Sansa gasped. Her eyes burned into the fire. "If you were my Hand, what would you advise me to do?"

A shiver ran down Tyrion's spine. He had to contain whatever was going on. "I-If I was, I would advise you gather your small council. Mirroring your government similar to the realm would be a familiarity with your subjects; therefore, they might see comfort in an otherwise bleak land. You only preside over one kingdom, so cut out what doesn't work."

She looked to him again, nodding. "While ships are important, given that we're building a new kingdom from the ground up, I thought we should switch Master of Ships to Master of Trade."

Tyrion drew his head back, smirking. "I agree. Commerce is vital for a developing nation." Sighing, looked into the fire. "One resource you might have over the realm would be the dragonglass weapons. Have you thought about using that as a means of export?"

"I've had what men I could spare survey the battlements for everything they could find. We've secured about half the approximate forged weapons."

"Good." Waiting for more information, Tyrion narrowed his eyes and diverted them back onto her when she didn't say more. "And?"

Licking her lips and sighing, Sansa looked into the fire again. Tyrion stared at her mouth for more than what was considered appropriate. Gasping, he shook his head, freezing when Sansa fingered the fabric of his sleeve. "Tyrion, are you alright?"

"Fine, Your Grace."

She scowled. "_Sansa_." She adjusted her legs under her skirts and kept her attention on her peasant-like dress. "I don't mind it in public, but especially when the setting is more intimate, please use my name."

Intimate…his mind crept closer to the place where pleasure is more than passing whispers in his mind. "What are you doing?" Tyrion groaned, slipping from her grasp.

When she turned, her brows were furrowed. "What am I doing?" Her features read confusion, but the exaggerated purse of her mouth made his mind wander.

Head shaking, he exhaled through his nose, eyes closing. Tyrion needed his mind to settle down. "N-nothing. There's a ringing in my ears. Head hurts." He shoved a finger in his hear to demonstrate the lie. Chuckling, he shrugged. "Must be all the wine."

"If you wish to go, you do not need to feel pressured to stay at my side for all of the five months, Tyrion. You're not my Hand." Sansa smiled weakly. "You're my guest."

Before he could respond, she stood gracefully and walked toward the desk. "I have business to tend to anyway."

— — — — — — — — — — —

The following two days, they danced around each other's presence, spending no more than a few minutes all day talking about the idea of her small council. She needed to select her Hand, but all her candidates were either south, dead, or exiled.

By midday on the third day since their awkward exchange before the fire, Tyrion knew he had to approach her. Otherwise, it would be obvious he was avoiding her. Being that he was a man of laughable honor, Tyrion had to mend things quicker rather than slower.

Without a structured castle and body of rule, Sansa's schedule was quite erratic. Sometimes she'd spend the whole day in the library. Other days, she'd sleep in an hour or two more. Most days, though, she did all she could to assist with the rebuild and assessment of their resources, which were frighteningly low.

Today, Tyrion couldn't find her anywhere. He'd asked about every servant in the crumbling castle where she was without success. His search eventually led him to the last place he'd not checked: The Godswood.

Perched upon a rock, she sat facing the white and red tree, appearing to pray, but he couldn't be certain. The snow crunched underneath his boots. There was no way she wouldn't hear him approaching, but he thought it best she knew he was there watching. She, too, could track the time he spent there watching her.

"There you are…" The words sounded disheartened. Tyrion winced. He should sound more neutral. A flow of wind passed between them. Stepping closer toward her, he admired the splendor of the tree hanging over them. He stopped until he was five paces behind her. Just out of her reach.

"Here I am…" She didn't move.

Swallowing, Tyrion tugged on his pelt around his shoulders. "I've been looking all over for you."

"I don't know whether I love or hate this place." Sansa silenced Tyrion. His mouth hung open, the words he was about to say drifting away in the passing wind. "So many memories here."

"Do you wish to share?" Breaking out of the spell, he found a rock situated across from hers and sat down, now about 3 paces from her. "You will always have my ear."

Sansa opened her eyes, sliding them over to him and dropping them to his boots. Slowly, he watched her take him in as her blue hues rose from his feet to his chest until she hazarded a peek at his mouth. "There are things I may never say. Not even to you."

Tyrion's skin tightened. The cold had nothing to do with the goose flesh crawling all over his body. He cleared his throat. "We all have our secrets."

Turning her attention to the tree, she stared at the face on the trunk. "Petyr Baelish swore his allegiance to House Stark here." She wiped a tear away. "He called me his love…professed his love to me…not for the first time…"

Tyrion listened to the leaves brushing together as another light burst of wind blew by. His gut clenched, and his fists tightened until the fabric of the glove dug into his skin. "Were you close?"

"If I wasn't a queen, I could make for a decent Master of Whisperers, I think. Sometimes I doubt that, but when a man like Petyr Baelish becomes predictable to you, you know you're clever."

"Why did he give you to Ramsay Bolton?" Tyrion's shoulders sagged, chest heaving in fresh air when he could.

"At the time, he was the Warden of the North. I'm sure it made sense to him and his pretty plan at the time."

"How did your spirit survive those horrors?" Sansa looked down at him, meeting his sad gaze. Her reply was silence. The leaves rustled, singing to them. In the distance, he swore he heard a bird chirping.

"Anyway," Sansa started, "it's also the place where I reunited with my family…where Jon made me swear not to tell a soul about who he truly is."

"Why did you tell me?" Tyrion stood, walking closer to her. "If you hadn't, things might have been different…"

Sansa remained seated, allowing them to match height as best as they could. Her eyes never left his. "It was a risk I could not take. The north was always my only focus. We had to be independent."

"You never gave her a chance."

Sansa's eyes watered. "Don't fight in the North or the South. Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before."

Tyrion stepped back. "Was that Baelish who said that?"

"He taught me many things." Sansa reached for his hand. "If anyone can understand what it means to lose all or most of your family, it's you. The Iron Throne beheaded my father and burned my virtue. I didn't want it after leaving King's Landing. I just wanted the north."

Tyrion pulled away. "Well, I'm happy someone got everything they ever wanted."

"There are things even a queen can't have." She dropped her hand and rested it in her lap. "The Dragon Queen took some things with her in death." Sansa looked away. "At least I know what I cannot have."

"Tell me, poor queen, what can't you have?" His chest burned and his nostrils flared. Lip trembling, Tyrion closed in toward her, a few inches away. While she was still taller, he could smell something scenting her hair, though he couldn't identify with all the wind. "She could have been a great queen."

"You feared her in the end." Sansa's breath tickled his skin. She didn't cower away as she might have years ago. "Is that a queen you should believe in, Tyrion?"

"She wanted great things."

Sansa drew closer, just a hair, but it was enough to send Tyrion's heart surging. "Many people want many great things." Her gloved hand landed on his coiled fist, soothing the tension out by rubbing with her thumb. When his hand was relaxed, she took it. "It doesn't make them right."

Tyrion gulped, frozen in his place before her. Tears stung his eyes, but he wouldn't let them fall. "What did she take from you?"

"I'll tell you all," Sansa whispered. Adjusting her hand in his, she picked at the fingertips of his gloves, one by one, until she slid it off his hand. Using her free hand, she clutched his wrist and brought him closer to her enough to do what she desired.

Starting from part of his exposed wrist, she trailed her fingers across the expanse of his tight skin to the tip of his fingers. The contact was feather-light, nearly imagined. The sensation trickled across his body, forcing his spine to shake under her command. When he exhaled, his breath was splintered and quick. Dropping her hand from his wrist, Sansa swallowed, eyes questioning him. Sadness veiled her eyes, protecting her from his scrutiny. Taking his finger between hers, she guided his palm to her warm lips. The pad of her thumb traced where her mouth had been.

Eyes dropping to her mouth, Tyrion stood dumbfounded and unable to say or do anything, including moving away. What she did was highly inappropriate—no matter how friendly they were. A shiver broke the bottleneck holding his mind hostage. "Sansa…"

"I know what these hands are capable of, Tyrion. I know because I'm capable of the same things. I've hurt people…maybe not with brute strength or weapon accuracy, but I need you to remember that we're the same, Tyrion." Sansa let a few tears fall, not moving to wipe them. "You're very gentle. You're kind. You're also crude, but I'm trying my best to let go of the past."

"What is it you want?" The fog clinging around his mind mixed with his racing thoughts impaired his reason more than any woman or drink had.

Sansa smiled, still holding his hand. "I want to be someone you are your whole self with. In turn, I want to be myself with you. Just honesty. I have no one in the world I trust with me. I just want one person to know who I am…completely."

Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat. "Friends…"

The little light in her hues died in sync with her forming frown. Fingers once soft as a whisper tensed until she nodded and grabbed his hand between both of hers. Swallowing, Sansa forced a smile, similar to one she'd used around Daenerys upon their first meeting. "Exactly."

* * *

**[A/N] **The next chapter will be lighter. I'm just setting up a few strings in these first few chapters. **Please review!**


	4. Four

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** I really tried to deliver on my promise. Sorry in advance.

* * *

_**Chapter 4**__**:**_

_Tyrion_

* * *

The first month came and left as quickly as Daenerys' reign over the Seven Kingdoms. While Sansa was no closer to naming a Hand—or anyone on her Small Council—Tyrion was proud of Winterfell's progress. Sansa approached the Vale with a vital trade deal: one thousand dragonglass weapons in exchange for enough to pursue the most important parts of the castle repairs and a few months of contingency for food with King's Landing.

Word of what she'd secured reached the farthest edges of Winterfell: to all subjects save one exiled pack member. Sansa swore they weren't close, but Tyrion recognized complicated familial love. Jon trusted her not to tell a soul of his parentage. In exchange for her treachery, she was given a crown, while he was exiled.

Well, Tyrion supposed he was now missing. Rumors eluded him fleeing with the Wildlings. He really was gone. It wasn't his place or responsibility, but he'd promised her she'd see him again one day. She knew better than to believe a half-man's lie, but at least she'd stopped avoiding him.

Somehow, they'd fallen into a comfortable routine—one where she did not kiss his palm and he did not think about fucking her. It was for the best.

The weight in Sansa's cheeks returned: mostly. He shared his modest meals with her each night. He told her his stories about how he escaped Westeros and happened upon a queen in need of a Hand, and she settled on several ordinances until a proper creed could be laid down with the various lords across Winterfell, including appointing new faces to those families wiped out with the Great War.

Sharing their meal tonight, their routine broke. Sansa was whisked away after being told something whispered in her ear by a small boy. She'd asked him to stay in her office.

That had been two hours ago.

The doors burst open, revealing Sansa once again. Her eyes were red and puffy. He leaped from his chair and rushed to her side, taking her hand unconsciously. "What is it, Sansa?"

Her fingers closed around his. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes. "Reports from White Harbor. A band of stray Dothraki killed over twenty people before leaving the city." Her hand shook. Letting go of his hand, she moved to sit in his chair, which was closest to the raging fire. "Most of them were killed, but the strongest fled the city. They're on the way here to assassinate me."

Tyrion gasped, rushing back to her side. "I learned a few words while traveling with Daenerys," he whispered. "Perhaps I could negotiate."

"They rape and pillage!" Sansa shouted. "They're mongrels!"

Tyrion brushed hair out of her face, cupping her cheek. "I won't let them look at you, alright?"

"I knew this was a possibility, but I thought we'd be better equipped and fortified! The gates are still broken!" Sansa worked at her pelt around her shoulders, stripping off the heavy piece. She wore a dark grey ensemble underneath. "Tyrion, if they find me I _will_ kill myself! I will not be had again…"

"Don't speak of such nonsense." Tyrion pulled her into him, but she collapsed on the floor. When he touched her again to help steady her, her whole body trembled, but her eyes were solid, clear. Sansa really meant to kill herself if it came to it. "It won't come to that. I won't allow it."

"I can't stay in my room, Tyrion!" Sansa clutched his shirt, pulling it from his waistband. "Please let me stay with you. Theon's dead. Jon's missing. Arya's Gods know where…"

Tyrion's whole body warmed and froze all at once. "I'm not sure that's proper…"

"For fuck's sake, Tyrion! This is my life, what's left of me! Let people whisper. I don't care! I can't be alone!"

He flinched, unprepared for that language on her lips. "As you wish."

"You can't go outside until they're killed. If they see you here, it could start a new war!"

"My life doesn't matter right now." Tyrion wiped tears from her face. "All that matters is you. You're safe, Sansa."

"How do you know?"

Tyrion smiled. "Your people love you. They're armed with the weapons we used to defeat the Undead." He kissed her forehead, lingering far too long to be considered appropriate. His blood rushed all around. Thinking clearly since coming had proved to be almost impossible, but her life hung in the balance. The whole Undead army could resurrect once more, but he would defend her until he drew his last breath if needed. His life was meaningless, and that would be the most honorable way to die for someone as unworthy as him. "It's a force to reckon with."

Sansa's sobbing quieted, but she said nothing in return. Instead, she simply rested her forehead against his chest. He reached for her hair, gently stroking the soft tendrils there.

"My watch continues…"

— — — — — — — — — — —

"I've sent ravens to both Bran and Lord Royce." Sansa absently said from the desk in Tyrion's guest room. "I hope it reaches us in time." The wood chair squeaked as she turned back. "I'm sorry if what I said earlier disturbed you, Tyrion."

Facing the fire, Tyrion waved a hand over his shoulder. "I suppose I'd say the same thing if I had a c…was a woman." Downing the last of his wine bottle, he sighed. "The destruction of King's Landing is a day I shall never forget," he muttered. From where he sat on the floor, the heat from the hearth reached out, licking his face—even all the way through his beard. Screams, the smell of burning flesh, and the distant cry of surrender bells swirled around his mind.

"In the wake of burning corpses, the Dothraki managed to find dozens…maybe hundreds, of women and girls to violate. They had no preference for how they took them." The fire cracked, and he closed his eyes. "Some of them were even dead. Those men would fuck anything-"

"_Stop._"

"It was all in Daenerys' name…" Tyrion dipped his head back, holding his tongue out as he tipped the bottle over him. A few drops rained down into his mouth, earning a lazy grin. "When it was all over, the Dragon Queen did nothing to them. No punishment or a breath of reprimand." Wobbling, he stood, preferring the fire's song that stole his focus than the idea of turning around to face Sansa. "Though raped herself, she condoned such behavior in the name of liberation…"

Burping, he wiped his mouth. When did the intoxication set in? He'd been careful to drink slow. Hadn't he? "Can't remember…" he drawled, his voice sing-song and joyful. Tyrion shifted his attention to his feet, seeing several empty wine bottle surrounding him. "Well, that's not good."

"You're drunk." Tyrion jumped, legs unsteady. Hands caught his shoulders. "Careful…" Sansa's breath teased the back of his neck, sending his nerves ablaze. "What about your watch?"

Tyrion winced. Her voice was no longer warm, inviting. The deflection of the last words from her lips cut him deeper than any pain he'd endured in recent memory. Dipping his brows, he curled his top lip and whipped around. "You asked me to be who I am!"

For once, he looked down on her. Sansa sat with her legs stretched together under her simple, elegant dress. She'd lifted the pelts from her shoulders. At this angle, he noticed the curve of her breasts and her narrow waist. Throwing his hands up, he gestured to himself. "This is who I am!" The corner of his mouth stretched up. "I drink, and I know things…"

Sansa's eyes were wet, and they danced in his shadow up at him, searching for answers he knew not to give. "You're so much more than that, Tyrion." While she made no move to touch him, she didn't move back away from him. Their mouths were so close. All he had to do was reach for her.

He did not.

"You're a good and generous man, Tyrion. You've restored honor to House Lannister."

Tyrion softly chuckled. "If you believe that to be true…" Shaking his head, his eyes sobered. "Then you're more naïve than I thought." He walked around her, hearing her adjust her skirts to keep her heavy gaze on him.

"I was right about the Dragon Queen. I took out Baelish before he could use me any further. He, too, thought me naïve." Sansa curled her legs closer to her, no longer relaxed. "You said it yourself."

Tyrion looked over his shoulder. "And what was that?"

Squaring her shoulders, Sansa took a deep breath. "Everyone who has ever crossed me is dead."

"Is that supposed to be a threat, Sansa Stark?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "If you think I'm capable of hurting you, then you really are just an old, drunken fool."

"What if I am just an old, drunken fool, Sansa?" They shared a look, both remaining apart until Tyrion sighed. For some reason, his boots were now the most fascinating object in all of Winterfell. He flinched when he heard her skirts shifting. After a breath, he boldly stole a glance at her, seeing her straightening her skirts back to her original, relaxed posture by the fire. Legs outstretched, hair braided out of her face and flowing over her breasts and down to her waist, she looked otherworldly.

"Do you want to know one thing the Dragon Queen took from me?"

Brows twitching toward his nose, Tyrion faced her and stepped a few paces closer. "Tell me."

Sansa moved her hands to her hair, twirling the ends absently. "She stole the possibility of my words carrying weight to you."

Tyrion's chest constricted, aching until he had to comfort himself with his own hand on the afflicting spot. Rubbing the fabric above his heart, he swallowed, looking away. "That's not-"

"It is." Sansa nodded. "You can't even look at me when you lie, Tyrion."

A few steps toward her eased the burning in his chest. While dangerous, proximity to her offered him a momentary peace. The last person to make him feel this way, however briefly, he'd killed with his hare hands. "I don't want to hurt you."

Sansa glanced down, darting to her fidgeting hands. Fiery strands coiled around her pale finger, entrancing him. "Let's not build our friendship based on lies."

"Even if the truth kills you?"

"Wouldn't it be nice to have an equivalent exchange of honesty and trust with even one person?"

"In a perfect world, Sansa…" He took another few steps toward her, standing almost as close as he had previously.

Lifting her gaze to his, Sansa gasped, exhaling loudly afterward. "I'm tired of hiding behind pretty, diplomatic smiles and miserable, blank expressions, Tyrion." She reached for his hair, lowering her hand through his beard and twisting the hair between her fingers. Her eyes narrowed as if questioning herself.

A stray finger brushed his cheek, and he felt her shaking. He took her hand and couldn't stop himself from leaning in. "Sansa…"

"Since leaving Winterfell all those years ago, my heart has deflated of emotion. One by one. Joffrey broke me. He took my father from me. One by one, men used me, killed my family, and started wars in my name." Sansa curled her fingers around his hand. "I thought Ramsay would watch me for the rest of my life, lingering just beyond my shoulder."

Tyrion lowered his head to hers, bringing her hand to his chest. "Sansa..."

"I feel again, Tyrion." Sansa closed her eyes. "When the clouds lift away, and the sun, for a brief moment, shines on my face, I feel it. I touch the snow, and the cold stings my fingers again."

Swallowing, she nuzzled against him gently. "When Arya rode away, my heart broke. And when Jon fled north, the armor he'd sheltered me with disappeared." Tyrion moved his nose against hers, lifting his jaw and angling himself above her mouth. He reached around and settled a hand at the back of her neck, searching her eyes. "I'm naked, alone, alive and broken."

Sansa brushed her mouth against his, her touch fragile and delicate. "Break with me, Tyrion."

"Seven hells."

Tyrion shoved his lips to hers, eyes sagging closed and throat holding a guttural moan hostage. He parted his mouth to take them deeper, but her lips stayed closed. Touching the tip of his tongue against her lower lip, she tentatively obeyed him and opened slightly. Together, they stilled as he approached her tongue with his own. He drew back, but she chased his lips, capturing him and enslaving him.

The hand gripping the back of her hair tightened, clutching her hair and guiding it over her shoulder. She reached around and gathered the rest of her hair over her opposite shoulder.

They touched their tongues together, his more eager and hers unsure. The moan caught in his throat escaped just as she gasped. He'd never kissed a highborn lady before. Gone was the frenzied tongue war he was used to: replaced by an unyielding tenderness and peace. He slowed his perusal of her mouth and lowered his hand from her shoulder to the center part of the back of her dress, fingers crawling upward until he found the topmost buttons holding her dress together.

His mouth, still sealed on hers, distorted Sansa's moan. He tinkered with the top button until it gave way, moving onto the next few until he earned a small opening from her high collar. Tyrion unlatched only a few more until he was able to pry the stiff fabric away from her throat.

Sansa shivered as the cool night air seeped over her exposed skin. Tyrion's mind blurred with the promise of passion and protection in her arms. Bending the top of her dress back, he earned a better view of the top of her chest.

Never had the sight of a collarbone aroused him, but there was certainly a first for everything.

Hands moved to his back, stroking the many layers of clothes there. Opening his eyes, he reached for her jaw, which he lifted with his hand as he eased her back on the floor. Her long hair spilled back over her shoulders, but she didn't try and cover herself. They both heaved and gasped for air, desperate for something he could not name. "Sansa…"

He shifted over her, instantly freezing when his erection found the valley between her legs. At that exact moment, Sansa moaned, echoing and bouncing all around them. A bead of sweat pooled down his nose and dropped onto her dress. Had he been a grown man, he could both suck at her nape and earn that same noise from her all at once.

Tyrion moved toward her chest, lowering his mouth onto the nape of her neck. Sansa titled her head to the side, exposing more skin to his exploration. Grabbing a fist full of her hair, he teased her flesh with his mouth, sucking and warming her with his tongue. He shocked himself when he growled after she curled her fingers around his belt. The action sent a shockwave across his body, encouraging him to feast more ardently at the spot he claimed. His whole body shook, trembling in the wake of Sansa's demolition, breaking down walls he'd fortified ages ago. Tyrion chanced a light nip at her skin, earning him a wanton moan emerging from the deepest part of her perfect chest. The noise vibrated against his mouth.

Sansa adjusted her legs underneath him. "Tyrion…"

Of all the exotic lands he'd seen and foreign languages he'd heard in his life, his name on her lips brought his cock to full attention, hard and ready for her.

Sansa reached for his hand, claiming it as he descended her body to allow her body to cradle him once more. Placing a gentle kiss between her breasts, Tyrion arched his back and ground his cock at her center. Though they both had many layers between them, he felt her sweet warmth.

"Fuck, Sansa." Was she wet for him? Did she need him as much as he needed her? Would she come for him? Could she break for him? He was _so_ close.

Sharp gasps and guttural moans were all she was capable of saying in response to his attention. His arms shook, so he alleviated the pressure by resting his head on her breasts, increasing his speed. "Come for me, Sansa." Slamming his eyes shut, he suppressed the pressure burning his cock.

Sansa held his hand tighter the faster he worked them. Clothes had never felt more like a prison cell. He wanted to feel her against his bare flesh for hours. It would never be enough.

"Tyr…"

He looked up, seeing her bite her lip and squeeze her brows together. "Come for me." Arching her back, she shook against him. Her moan was quiet, desperate. "Break with me, Sansa."

Tyrion moved a hand, cupping her arched waist to steady himself against her. Fixing his eyes on her face, he knew he wouldn't last much longer. Tears glossed her eyes, and the fire radiated off her smooth skin. In the low, flickering light, her hair looked like real fire emerging from her skull.

Sansa was a goddess between his hands.

It was too late. He couldn't stop his body from erupting in the passion she'd inspired within him, evoking fresh, but ancient emotion long thought dried up.

"Tyrion…I…I think I'm…" Sansa shivered underneath him.

His throat swelled, blocking off whatever he wanted to whisper or promise to her then. Three more pumps into her skirts were all he could handle before he surrendered to her.

"Sansa I'm-"

Gasping, she opened her mouth and gasped. "Breaking."

Tyrion gulped, watching her break apart with him. Her eyes were closed, but she bit her lip again. Sansa was overcome with the passion he'd given her. Tyrion had done this, gotten her to this place. The sounds and sights of this moment he would never forget.

His pants were wet, but he stayed there, watching her fly back down from the heavens. Back to him.

"I've never…felt that before."

He didn't know if it was the words or the way she'd spoken them, but Tyrion's eyes widened. "You've never had an orgasm?"

A blush bloomed on her cheeks. "A what?"

"Fuck." Tyrion bolted upright, rubbing his face with the hand he'd pulled out from hers. "Fuck!" When he attempted to climb to stand, she reached for his face, snagging his attention back to her. He pulled away and grabbed her wrist tightly. "I'm drunk!" Tears stung his eyes.

"Don't leave me, Tyrion. Don't pull away!"

Tyrion threw her hands away from him. "No, this isn't right!"

"What's not right about it?"

"You're a girl." Tyrion turned from her. "You're a queen!"

He heard her rush to stand. "No, we're equals!"

Tyrion's eyes watered. He whipped around and seethed, head shaking. "No, Sansa! You've been brutally fucked by one single madman, while I've fucked dozens, possibly more than a hundred whores."

Sansa's face broke, tears pouring down her cheeks. He should have just slapped her. Why couldn't he shut up? He only ruined things and hurt people. The weight of the guilt her pain inspired in him crippled him much like his own brother and sister under the stones. He wanted to vomit.

"I'm a Lannister. You're not just a queen, but the Queen in the North. You're a Stark. A highborn lady undeserving of my impish attention."

The pain breaking her perfect features cooled, fixing almost as quickly as she had broken. She flattened her brows and mouth but made no attempt to wipe her tears. "I trusted you." Her chin trembled, despite the effort she poured in regaining her composure. He could see how much she was fighting. It was there in her eyes, which glistened in the firelight. Bowing lazily, She turned around and opened the door without fixing her buttons that he'd undone.

"Good night, My Lord."

"Sansa…" A tear left his eye. The door closed, and he fell to his knees.

* * *

**[A/N] **Ok. I'm going to stop promising lighter chapters, because the next one is a bit heavy, too. You will all have a bit of fluff in no time, but they apparently need to sort out their emotional trauma first. **Please review!**


	5. Five

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **Try not to think the worst by the end of this chapter. I still have a lot of story to cover!

* * *

_**Chapter 5**__**:**_

_Sansa_

* * *

Sansa looked over papers scattered across her desk, examining a few while her mind tried to dally in dangerous directions. Narrowing her eyes, she cleared her throat and scanned the pages, mostly letters of congratulations, marriage proposals, and thanks.

A knock at her door made her jump, but she regulated her wild heart for a moment before signaling whoever was at the door to enter. It was too early for Tyrion to be about. He'd be nursing a nasty aching head for at least another few hours. A boy named Davon walked into the room.

The small, blond boy no older than when Bran had been pushed off the tower had belonged to The Spider's network. Once she'd been sent word of Varys' execution, Sansa saw an opportunity to strike. The boy had connected her to ten of Varys' little spiders and pipelines both in Winterfell and across the realm. It wasn't much, but she could quickly get information to key parts across Westeros. Eventually, she'd press him for more names, but she needed to maintain his loyalty, fostering this relationship to ensure he remained loyal to Winterfell.

"Are they ready?" Sansa asked.

Davon shook his head. "An hour or two more at least."

"That's fine." Sansa stood from her chair. "Still enough time."

"Is that all, Your Grace?"

"No," Sansa said. "It's not." Plucking a small bag filled with sufficient coin from her desk, she walked to the boy, handing it to him. "Quietly pack his things. I want no further delay."

"What if he wakes up?" Davon jingled the bag.

Sansa smiled. "Impossible." The man was slow to rise, as she'd discovered in his time here with her. Add in alcohol, he was much slower. "You're to collect his things and deliver them downstairs before the caravan is ready."

She turned to return to her desk, but the boy cleared his throat. "Your Grace?"

"What is it, Davon?"

"I've heard the savages were captured and killed some time last night by your bannermen. You're safe."

Sansa looked down at her desk, fidgeting with her hands at her stomach. Tears stung her eyes. She was safe. "Thank you."

Sansa Stark would survive without Tyrion Lannister.

All would be right again.

As soon as he left Winterfell.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

A few carriages were nearly finished when Tyrion emerged outside the desolate castle. "What's going on?" From her position behind the carriages, she heard him rushing toward them.

A lump caught in her throat, but she eased a breath out of her and inhaled slowly. That seemed to help her nerves.

Tyrion had his mouth on her last night. Hours ago.

Closing her eyes, she rid herself of the shame and heartache. She'd been right. His divided loyalties would always be a problem between them.

Her love was worthless to him.

Winterfell needed her at her best, so sending him and her feelings south would alleviate any distraction. Tyrion had mentioned over this month how he'd instructed Daenerys to do the same with a man across the sea from which she came.

Sansa would always be alone now. That had to be alright.

"Your Grace…"

Tyrion wore a crimson ensemble paired with a pelt she'd bought him in the market. His hair was disheveled. His eyes sagged, dark bags claiming the usual light hanging in them.

"My Lord," she replied passively. "The Dothraki threat has been eliminated by my brave bannermen. I see no reason why you must stay longer."

"I'm not due south for another four months' time." Tyrion stepped closer to her, but Sansa looked away at the castle. "Why are you doing this? Sending me away won't solve anything."

"My bannermen have reminded me of how resilient my people are." Sansa spared him a cold stare. "The north requires the south no longer."

"The south insists for continued cooperation." His eyes were small and glassy. Sansa noticed his bottom lip trembling.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "I bend for no man any longer, My Lord."

Tyrion reached out, but stopped himself. "Sansa, I need only a moment of your time."

Looking down at him, Sansa moved her eyes over him—from his feet back to his sad, pleading stare. "You would have had my life, Tyrion." Lifting her brow, she skillfully slid her expression to her default, disinterested stare. "I bring you a queen's mercy. Fly south and flee the cold, where you wish to be."

Without another glance, Sansa walked away from him.

"Please, Sansa!"

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Two weeks drifted to a month. Winterfell was better positioned with the repairs she'd overseen. The gates were fortified, and the food stores were replenished with at least seven month's worth if rationed.

While no paradise, her people worked alongside her in rebuilding. The dead bodies and decayed bones were witnessed fewer by the week. Any spare effort went to uncovering any dragonglass weaponry.

Stocking her more powerful neighboring nation with such rare artifacts wasn't a good idea to Sansa. The lords agreed; however, if it meant eating, she would consider parting with another small batch.

Life went on.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_I've written you dozens of letters. I'll only send you this one._

_We've heard more reports about Dothraki heading north. His Grace insists you accept our aid. Protecting you is in both our interests…the south and north._

_If the south can provide you anything, send word, and you shall receive._

_Please talk to me. Included is a package. Please enjoy on my personal behalf._

_I remember your smile._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Lemon cakes.

He sent her lemon cakes.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_I almost didn't eat them._

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Sansa rubbed the area above her collarbone. The mark was gone like many things, but the burn still scalded her skin. The Dothraki defectors made it all the way to the castle, but her people had protected her. Two of her men had died, and she'd given them a hero's death and compensated their widows. If her reports were to be believed, the last were supposedly out there still, somewhere in the realm.

Always alone, life as queen was more solitary than she could manage, so she'd resorted visiting what family she had remaining—in the crypts. Sometimes she'd spend hours talking to them. Others she'd go to sleep at her father's feet.

Without any word on Jon, Sansa felt isolated from everything. She wouldn't regret leaving the realm. Winterfell deserved that. She'd delivered her promise to her people.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_I've written drunken letters, angry letters, sweet letters…everything but the truth. I shall never realize the magnitude of pain I've inflicted. _

_In order to deserve to tell you the truth, I must first earn your trust again. My watch remains ever steady on the northern horizon._

_I won't rest until you feel safe again, Sansa. Hurting you is the only sin I shall never fully recover from._

_Let's try to start somewhere safe for us both._

_I remember Jaime's laughter when we would play as children. Despite what everyone thought, he truly was a good man until the end._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Sansa wiped her tears away. There was no time to reread the same words she'd memorized a week ago. How to respond had confused her in such a way she could not understand.

Lord Royce entered her office. "Your Grace. It is time."

Nodding, Sansa closed her eyes and breathed. Slow. Steady. A section of the temporary housing in the village, along with fifteen of her people, was burnt to ashes.

Footsteps broke her thoughts. Lord Royce stopped a few paces away. "I understand your hesitation, Your Grace. Your bannerman and mine shall ensure they not breathe in your vicinity."

"I know."

He nodded to her once. "The North shall always have the Vale's support."

Sansa smiled, diplomatic and removed from her guarded heart. "I shall always remember your loyalty, My Lord."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Tyrion,_

_I wish for many things. _

_I should properly thank you for the lemon cakes. They were everything I remembered. _

_I know not how to say cross with you anymore. However, trust is a luxury I simply cannot afford to anyone. Not again._

_In Bran's letters, he hardly shares the splendors of the reconstruction of King's Landing. While I will never return, there were a few perks about the city._

_I remember the pretty dresses. Despite hating the capital, I was always fond of the fashion._

_Regards,_

_Sansa_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

"What say you to the charges?" Sansa impassively recited. Her back was straight against her throne, mental defenses and walls impenetrable. She'd cleansed all emotion from her mind. There was no room for hysterics around people like a Dothraki.

The bloodied and broken man charged toward her, but the chains held him in place. Her bannermen had beaten him, wearing down his strength for her protection. The man's eyes were swollen, one shut entirely. The side of his face was twice the usual size. "I come only to avenge my Khaleesi. I live by Dothraki law." Despite being an outlander, this man spoke decent Common Tongue.

"So be it." Looking to the side, Sansa nodded to the guards. "I sentence this man to death. May it bring peace to those he has hurt."

"I am not the last." The Dothraki man spit in her direction. "More will come. Men who know where you lie at night…"

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_King's Landing fares well—all things considered. We rebuild based on necessity, although our stores of coin weigh more than yours. We shall know peace._

_Someday._

_Brienne makes an excellent leader for the Kingsguard. I'm sure she sends you missives with her own updates, but I wanted to apologize for insisting she come south. I never meant to take anyone from you._

_In a way, I feel responsible for her. Jaime loved and left her to die with Cersei. Equipping her with a well-deserved role in the rebuilding process provides me with some comfort on Jaime's behalf._

_She never inquires about him, nor do I mention him to her. Us Lannisters are terrible to those we care for, it seems._

_I remember having family obligations and duties. Now that I am the sole surviving Lannister, I cannot say I do not miss it. I would give much to have a family again._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The crypts were the only place no one heard her crying these days. Holding Tyrion's letter to her heart, she wiped at her tears, sniffling obscenely for a lady. Had she been a stronger woman, she might not have tasked the little spiders to watch Tyrion. All she'd wanted to know was if he was all right. With each passing day, the need to see him welled closer to the gates of her heart.

Knowing he was in good health and spirits was all she needed to know. The Gods were punishing her.

Tyrion frequently visited the same brothel. Sometimes twice a week. Other times, each night. Usually with several women at once. Always drunk.

The Hand had no obligation to her. She'd pushed him away. More than ever, she knew she would never satisfy him. While inexperienced, she'd heard Ramsay detail his conquests to her. Paired with the celebration the night after the battle where nearly everyone fell into each other's beds and screamed the whole night, Sansa could only imagine what tricks and skills he'd require to peek.

Not for the first time, she cursed Ramsay, the man who'd brutally ripped away at the one thing Joffrey hadn't taken: her virtue.

She was no longer a maiden, but she was far from the experienced temptress a man like him needed. Sansa was not enough for him.

A life with Tyrion Lannister, no matter how powerful her love, was impossible.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Tyrion,_

_I can bear no longer my correspondence with you. I believed myself capable, but it's as I've said in the Godswood: I know what I can't have._

_I had no ill will or motive in using my connections to check on you. _

_I wish I hadn't._

_I remember dreaming about marrying a perfect prince. Life was much simpler then._

_Regards,_

_Sansa_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Sansa wiped her tears. It mattered not. Tyrion might have felt attached, but it was mostly because of their forced marriage when she was only a girl. Being that he'd only been decent to her, it made sense why he'd want her taken care of.

Sansa was a few years older, but he'd only ever see a girl when he looked at her.

Sitting in the same spot she'd hidden with him, Sansa opened her eyes, looking to where he'd been.

He was there no longer.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

_Sansa,_

_This is not a subject appropriate through letters. We shall continue in person. I have many things I have to say if you permit me._

_However, please know it went on for only a matter of weeks. Thought I needed a distraction._

_I was misguided._

_Please don't stop sending your thoughts._

_I remember when words were easy for me. Nothing is easy anymore._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Sansa rode on horseback through the woods around the palace with two armed guards, who followed her at a slower pace to permit her some privacy. Snow fell, lightly brushing and melting when they landed on her cheeks.

The forest still had many corpses, thankfully buried by layers of snow by now. Sansa navigated the horse through the forest, her pace slow and spontaneous. Her gloves weren't thick enough for the day's brutal temperature, but Sansa didn't care for fleeing back to the warmth of the castle just yet.

In the distance from between the trees, which darkened the further away they were, a wolf howled. It sounded sad the closer she listened to the wind carrying the sound toward her. Brows dipping, Sansa slid off her horse and rushed, picking her skirts up to avoid the rubble and buried corpses. The howling stopped, but she continued her pursuit in the same direction.

"Your Grace!"

The guards' voices died, the wind now howling past her frozen ears. She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder and seeing no one. She paused to catch her breath, which fogged all around her.

Fear crippled her from venturing farther. Swallowing, Sansa looked forward, closing her eyes and praying to the Seven for strength. It didn't matter why she had to keep moving toward the wolf. All that she knew was that she had to. Deep in her soul, something called out to her.

She hadn't any expertise with blades or bows and no hope for running very far from danger. Each day, she carried the blade Arya used to kill the Night King. Looking down, she coiled her fists and shakily withdrew the knife.

She was a Stark. She was a queen. She could do this.

Tentatively, she stepped forward until she couldn't stop, using her arms to shield her face from slapping branches as her pace quickened. Up ahead, a clearing emerged. The morning light shone over it the closer she came to it. Gripping her knife, she slowed her pace.

At the edge of the trees, Sansa scanned the open area from left to right. When the sound of weak whimpering stole her attention, she held her hand over her eyes to dim the light's intensity. A small wolf pup was alone at the clearing's center. Sansa gasped, stepping closer.

"What are you doing all the way out here all alone?" The pup whined, backing away from here a step. However, Sansa knelt down, plucking her glove off and slowly offered the back of her hand to it.

The winter temperature cut at her skin, but the soft grey wolf pup took a few steps toward her. As it lifted its head to her, she noticed the fur around its eyes: symmetrical snowflake shapes. "You're beautiful, little one."

Something howled at her, but it was certainly _not_ a wolf. Sansa's body trembled. A full-grown bear at the edge of the trees stared at her. Swallowing, she held out the knife. What did one do when a bear was around? Should she shout? Was she supposed to run?

Reaching for the pup, Sansa made her best guess: run away. With the pup cradled in her arm, she used her other hand to clutch her skirts, so she could run faster. Looking over her shoulder, the bear was right behind her.

Time slowed, and the sound of her breathing drowned out every other noise. Tears drenched her face but felt like knives trailing down her skin. Ducking, she managed to narrowly escape its claws. Turning her eyes front, Sansa cried out when the bear sliced across her back. Falling to her hands and knees, she did her best to crawl quickly enough.

The pup fell out of her grasp just as the weight of the bear crushed Sansa to the ground. Hot tears stung her eyes, blurring the world. Her ribs crunched somewhere against a rock on the ground. She couldn't breathe. Another slash at her back dragged her closer to the beast. Her body rotated ever so slightly. Teeth sank into her waist.

Suffocating, she darted her eyes everywhere, seeing the knife still tangible. Gasping for air, she closed her eyes, wishing the tears would stop. They didn't, but slamming her hand around the ground earned her the knife. The bear dragged her until her back was flat on the ground. She convulsed. The world was fading, but she could not die.

Sansa didn't know if the Gods blessed her or not, but she managed to muster up enough energy to rush the knife in the bear's skull before it had another opportunity to bite or slash at her. A last, faint growl came from the bear before it's body toppled over her.

Shaking and whimpering, she tilted her head as far back as she could, peering in the direction she'd come from. Though her vision was blurry, a raven landed just a few feet from her. Gasping, her shivers grew more urgent. Shadow-like figures moved in the distance toward her until the world slipped away.

* * *

**[A/N] **What will happen next? **Please review!**


	6. Six

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **For any of you who dislike Tyrion resorting to old habits...just know that Tyrion is a very flawed man, but like Jorah said. He learns from his mistakes. I hope you give that a chance. :)

* * *

_**Chapter 6**__**:**_

_Sansa_

* * *

An abundance of pain cocooned around her, trapping her in an endless rage of misery. Mixed with the darkness, she could hear the faint sound of a fire crackling somewhere. Sansa heard voices, distorted by the barrier holding her hostage.

The darkness claimed her again. Until something touched her cheek. Held her hand? A light bombarded her closed eyes, ripping the darkness before her until it shattered.

Cold. She felt cold. Something soft over her shaking body. Something furry nuzzling her face. The light cracked, and the darkness won again.

Moments…hours, possibly, went by. Days?

Where was she?

The light flashed over her eyes, which twitched in response until her eyes opened. The world slowly sharpened, revealing her room. The room was dark, but somehow it was still too bright. She closed her eyes and tried to lift her hand, but a searing pain scorched across her body, gnawing and scratching until she cried out.

Except she couldn't cry out. Breathing was laborious, impossible. Tears blurred her world again, but a coarse hand touched her hand.

"Praise the Seven!" a voice that sounded vaguely like Brienne's whispered. Her touch was gone as quickly as her warmth anchored Sansa's focus to something other than the pain that itched everywhere. "Come at once! She's awake!"

Something rolled on the stone floor toward her, revealing Bran. When she tried to speak, she recoiled, her lungs striking against her ribs. Her eyes never left her brother's.

"The pain will go away, Sansa."

Pelts were thrown over her body, but she knew she was mostly naked. Darting her eyes, she realized that if she budged from how they'd laid her, pain would burn her.

They'd not seen each other in months now, but he would always be distant, cold—as she hungered herself to be. If she didn't feel, she wouldn't endure the demons or emotions that bind her.

The room was so cold. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. Now, she was trapped here with no voice. Would her body be immobile as Bran's was?

Sansa angled her chin down, closing her eyes to stop the tears.

"Rest, Sansa."

Something tickled her feet from under the pelts on the bed. Eyes wide, she broke focus from Bran and tried moving her legs to stop the sensation, but she yelped out in pain. She curled on the large bed and cried. Something fluffy pressed against her arm, making her cringe.

Whining sounded near her ear behind her, but turning her head was impossible. She looked at Bran.

"You saved the direwolf pup. He hasn't left your side since you left the forest."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

It was the middle of the night. Four days later, and she figured out she was not like Bran, bound to a chair for all his life. Speech still painful, Sansa hadn't spoken to anyone, save when someone was switching her bandages and rags. She wasn't like Arya or Jon.

Sansa Stark was a lady, as everyone constantly reminded her. When something hurt, she showed it. She had not the strength to suffer in silence. Brienne stayed her unyielding vigil with Sansa, not leaving the room unless something came up.

Bran visited her when he could. Forced to surrender control over Winterfell while she healed. Everyone said it was Bran who took over, but she'd heard the servants speaking about an imp's presence in the castle. He'd not stopped by.

At least, not when she was awake.

A large mirror in a corner of her room offered her encouragement: seeing what the beast had done to her body. She could only imagine how it looked. Because of her wounds, she wore loose-fitting nightclothes. Each morning, she braided her hair in one braid over a shoulder by herself, because Sansa had to do one thing on her own before she went mad.

The pup stretched on the bed beside her, yawning. Sansa had woken him. She hadn't figured out if all this pain was worth saving his spoiled soul. She struggled to keep her body sitting up, but she had to know what she looked like.

"Brie…" Sansa clutched her chest, shaking and wincing. Closing her eyes, she swallowed. "Brienne…" The knight snored in the corner from her chair. Sansa reached for a pillow, clutching the tip and pulling. The pup fell over the side of the bed. She wasn't even sorry for the little guy.

Hazarding her luck, Sansa lamely chucked the heavy pillow toward her watcher. It landed several paces to the right and managed to make it a few steps between her and the bed.

Brienne's snoring continued.

Sansa needed to think. Eyes sliding down on the pup, she slowly sighed. "I should…" Wincing, she twitched her brows together, continuing, "…throw you…at her." She could speak no louder than a quiet whisper. The pup whined, tapping his nose against her leg. "Like you…understand…what I'm saying…"

Sansa noticed a glass on her bedside table just out of reach. She looked down. "Move…or this glass will…fall on you." The pup rushed to the foot of the bed.

Situating her eyes on the table, she noticed the knife next to the glass. She might fall and further cut up her body. Dropping a heavy knife might do the trick. Stretching, Sansa grumbled until she brushed the tip. Her shaky fingers hardly moved it closer to the edge.

Sansa slowly guided her body back onto the bed, feet dangling in the cold. Between the constant snoring and the pup licking her toes, she would go mad.

This night would never end.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Brienne left to tend to her duties to Bran for a few hours. Sansa woke up to the pup licking her cheek.

"No…"

The licking continued. She lazily lifted her hand, pushing at the pup.

"Fine, I'm up…"

A thick robe was set out on a chair just out of reach. Someone had fixed her in her bed, replacing the pelts over her body. Sighing, she blinked slowly, trying to breathe as deeply as her body would allow—until the pain was too unbearable.

It took her a minute to sit back up, but when she did, she used the momentum to push herself toward the chair. The dark purple robe made of a thick material she could not place fell to the ground in her attempt not to fall. Bending her legs slowly, she knelt down, grasping the fabric to slowly pull it over her nightclothes. It fastened in the front via buttons. After several minutes, Sansa meandered to the mirror, inspecting herself. She was pale, and her cheeks were gaunt again.

Looking away, she swallowed and looked to the door. A sword was propped against the wall near her bed. She could use it to aid her walking. For now, it would have to do. She spared one last look at herself in the mirror. Harsh dark circles dominated underneath her eyes. She'd always looked so horrid when ill.

Her hair was messy, so she pulled the band at the end of her hair and fingered through her sloppy side braid. The robe was a compromise between nightclothes and her usual dress. The color suited her in the dim light of her room.

Sighing, Sansa took one step at a time toward the sword until she clutched it in her palm, testing what pressure she needed in order to walk efficiently so nor to welcome any unnecessary pain.

She was so tired.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The halls were mostly empty, but the further into the castle she explored, she heard the sounds of shouting. Was an assembly going on?

Without consulting her?

The pup kept her pace, playfully growling up at her for attention. She waved him off.

Sansa leaned against the stone wall, resting and catching her breath as best as she could before continuing. The sword helped, but she was most certain she shouldn't be traversing the castle while still healing. After two weeks of confinement, her body was only now recovering some energy. Pushing her body likely wouldn't help the amount of time required for her to heal.

She reached the great hall. The doors were open, but a crowd blocked her path.

"We must send our bannermen out to find these mongrels!"

Shouting intensified, making her wince. Grasping her forehead, she lost sight of the pup, which wormed his way through the crowd blocking her path, earning a few curious stares.

"Sansa is our queen. She must guide us."

A pause broke the infighting. "Sansa is still recovering from her attack," a familiar voice spoke.

"Jon…"

Men turned, seeing her and immediately parting.

"Her Grace is bedridden for some time," Jon continued.

Sansa steadied herself, using the sword as a cane, and walked through the men. As soon as she was visible, the opposite side of the room fell silent. It took a moment for Jon to turn around. He stared at her while she made her way to him.

"What…is the meaning…of this?"

Jon looked passive, his eyes sympathetic. He neared her, lowering his voice. "You're supposed to be resting." His gaze lowered to her chest and back up. Swallowing, he slid out under his pelt and eased it over her shoulders. "You shouldn't be out dressed like that!"

Sansa chuckled softly. "You're supposed to be…north of the Wall." The pup settled beside her feet and growled slightly. She searched the room, spotting the Wildlings off to the side. "I see you've…brought in reinforcements." Her voice was only a whisper. She desperately wished to be louder. She lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders. When the pain burned her, she flattened her lips together and twitched her brows. She lifted a trembling hand to just below her breasts, which provided her more support. Gulping, she opened her mouth. "What is going on?"

Tyrion cleared his throat. "More Dothraki sightings. We're sorting out what to do about it."

Sansa lingered on him for far longer than necessary. "What is the consensus?"

Tyrion straightened in his chair from behind the table. "Your Grace, I am in favor of fortifying the castle and drawing them here, as you have done the past few months."

Sansa glanced at Jon. "The problem?"

Jon put his hand on her cheek. "A queen is never to be bait."

"You know a lot about queens, Jon." Sansa pressed her hand at her ribs, increasing pressure. She hobbled away from him and moved toward Tyrion, locking eyes with him. "They want to kill _me_. I will not have my people slaughtered in my stead."

Shifting her gaze around them, she felt every stare on her body. Jon's pelt was so heavy, but she couldn't deny she felt more confident bundled up in such improper attire. Sighing, she winced when the pain flogged her lungs. Anchoring her eyes back onto Tyrion, she licked her lips and continued. "What do our reserves look like with all our new guests here?"

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, joining his hands together. "We had issues with the rationing at first, but all misunderstandings have been resolved. Winterfell is stocked for five months."

"Five months?" Sansa moved her attention to Jon. "Two weeks ago it was seven." She narrowed her eyes. "They're eating our food and enjoying the use of precious resources. What do they give in return?"

"Your Grace, we came south of the Wall to protect you."

"I don't need protection, Jon. I might have no dragons, but I'm damn good at this without the interference of others who aren't involved with Winterfell's affairs."

Jon shifted his gaze to Tyrion. "What involvement does he have in your affairs?"

"You're always so short-sighted, brother."

"He's a Lannister!"

Sansa looked to Tyrion, who tensed and clutched the arms of his chair. "So everyone reminds me." Lip trembling, she dropped her gaze to his cheeks. He'd shaved recently. A new beard, shorter in length, but more maintained, grew in the place of the previous. Shaking her head, she focused back on him. "Tyrion is a kind, capable man whose invaluable counsel I respect. He's a formidable ally to Winterfell."

Sansa leaned against the sword, so she could turn back to Jon. "I need to rest now." All eyes were on her. She looked to Bran for the first time. "Consider the matter resolved." Sansa looked down at the direwolf pup and motioned for the door from which they came.

As she passed Jon, he grabbed her wrist, holding her steady. "We're here to help, Sansa."

"Help?" Sansa chuckled. "You can start by clearing out the rubble in some of the rooms across the castle. If you stay, you work to earn your keep." Tearing away from him, Sansa turned to Bran. "Might I borrow your Hand to catch up on all I missed?"

Bran glanced to Tyrion. Sansa caught an exchange between them, but what it meant was up to interpretation. Bran's stretched his mouth and glanced back to her. "He is all yours."

Sansa nodded, her attempt at a bow. "Thank you, Your Grace."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

"How long has it been…since you arrived?" Sansa shrugged off Jon's pelt onto the back of her chair, relieved to be free from the weight. Leaning back allowed her to stabilize herself, which she'd discovered made it easier to talk.

Tyrion stared at something on the desk. "The day after you were…"

"My brother's doing, I assume?"

"Bran had a vision. We left at his command."

"Look at me…"

"You should have seen the caravan. Traveling with a cripple sure does change travel plans…"

Sansa sighed. "Tyrion…"

Tyrion leaned into his palms, shielding his eyes from her. "I can't, Sansa."

"Why not?"

Tyrion grabbed his hair, fisting it. "I don't know what I will do when we're like this."

"Like what?"

"Alone." Tyrion straightened, dragging his eyes on her. "I don't know if I want to grovel or kiss you, and it's maddening."

Sansa's lifted the corner of her mouth, settling her hands on her lap. The pup nuzzled against her ankles, opting to sit on her feet. Sansa felt her cheeks warm. She looked down. "I want to tell you something and have the conversation end." She heard him shift in his chair. "For now." Lifting her attention back to him, Sansa swallowed.

"Go ahead."

"I thought myself incapable to perform…certain activities…after Ramsay died. I can only imagine you've seen his scars on my back by now, so please spare me from detailing my marriage and use your imagination." Sansa blinked away the tears trying to form. "I never wanted him to…have me. I thought that part of life was over for me." Sansa shook her head. "It might still be."

"Can I say something?"

Nodding once, Sansa said, "Speak freely."

Tyrion reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. He paused, looking away, but clearing his throat. "I cannot imagine what you endured, Sansa. Life…it has an ironic way of proving you wrong when you least want it to."

"I wasn't prepared to feel again." Sansa fidgeted with her hands. "I'm still not." Both were quiet for a few seconds until she continued. "I have no experience in…pleasing men. I cannot promise I ever will."

Sansa gathered a couple papers and collated them into a neat stack off to the side. "I analyze everything I do, Tyrion. It's who I have to be."

He opened his mouth to speak.

"Until you…well, until after that night." Clearing her throat, Sansa exhaled slowly. "I don't know how to kiss. I've never…felt what you made me feel. In my head, I'm scrubbing through…every woman you've bedded—competing to be better."

"Sansa."

"The problem is I never will be better…or decent, really. I know I will never be enough for you…" Sansa broke down, features coping with her sob. She moved the back of her hand to her mouth. "And it's really hard knowing that, but it's true." Tyrion moved from his chair to her, moving to touch her face, but she moved away, haphazardly standing and turning away from him. She used the desk to steady herself. "I can't think about you with other women after…"

Tyrion's voice broke. "You must sit. I won't touch you…"

Sansa whirled around. "That's just it, Tyrion…" She wiped her eyes dry, but continued crying. "I want you to…

"Sansa, please sit. You're exhausted." Tyrion dipped his brows in concern.

She sat down, looking at his hands. "Why, Tyrion?" She searched his eyes. "I trusted you, and you so easily warm another's bed."

"Because I believed I loved Daenerys." Tyrion snapped. "You were right, Sansa." He gripped her chair's arm. His finger was so close to her hand. "Even dead, she still commanded my life." He drew closer but respected the distance she needed from him. "I hated myself for loving someone capable of murdering thousands of innocent lives. How could someone who loved someone like her love someone like…" Tyrion sucked in a breath, exhaling and shivering. "You said I feared her. The truth is I fear you, too, Sansa." He closed his eyes, touching her head with his. "More than anything else in my entire life. I was afraid of what that means."

Sansa exhaled, her breath spreading over Tyrion's face. His opened eyes and looked down at her mouth. "I wish more than anything that I could be a man you deserve. If you knew what I do about me, you'd see that all I am is a small coward…a failed Hand to a dead queen I arranged to murder."

"I wish you saw what I see in you." She kissed his forehead. She moved her finger to his downward chin, lifting his gaze back to hers. When he settled, she moved a finger, stroking the side of his face through his beard. "I don't want a king. I don't want a Hand…"

He pulled back. "What do you want?" Sansa smiled, staying quiet. He narrowed his eyes, exhaling wildly. "Do you trust me, Sansa?"

"I want to…"

Tyrion nodded, dropping his gaze to the floor. "My watch remains, then."

Sansa's stomach tightened when he remained close to her. But eventually, she had to disengage before she gave in. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For maintaining my rule so effortlessly while I nearly died."

Tyrion's features darkened. "Please don't joke about that."

"Sorry…"

"Sansa?"

"Yes?"

Tyrion dropped his hand from her chair. "You're a damn good queen."

* * *

**[A/N] **Well, Jon's back. How will this affect our favorite couple going forward? **Please review!**


	7. Seven

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **Updates might slow down until next week. Expect an update tomorrow or Friday.

* * *

_**Chapter 7**__**:**_

_Sansa_

* * *

The cold night pinched the skin at her back, while the raging fire warmed her cheeks. A thin layer of drying sweat coated her body. The stool she sat on was in no way comfortable. With no back, she fought to maintain her balance, thankful for her heavy pelt at her shoulders to anchor her.

Arms crossed, she allowed the flickering fire to daze her into a calming, mindless spell until the door to the storeroom slammed open. She didn't turn back. Sansa had no interest in speaking with anyone for the moment.

Brienne sat at the opposite side of the chairs and stools in the room at Sansa's request. Her nightmare had kept them both from enjoying the sleep they so desperately craved. The pup rested on top of her feet. The little troublemaker appeared to sleep.

Footsteps rushed in toward her, echoing around the room. "What was with the screaming?" Jon rounded her, kneeling before her. "Was there an attack?"

Sansa moved her eyes from the fire to him. "A nightmare, brother." More footsteps approached behind her in the span of shared silence between her and Jon. The sound of something rolling eventually stopped. When she looked to her side, Bran nodded to her but affixed his focus on the fire.

The large, ginger Wildling leader gulped something in his horn, belched, and claimed the chair beside Brienne, who scooted away awkwardly. "Ain't this reminiscent? It's like the Long Night all over again."

Sansa ignored the big outlander, opting to stare down at Jon. "How long did you say you were staying?"

When he reached for her hand, she slid out of his reach, shaking her head. He growled. "Sansa, the Dothraki aren't going to bend their tail between their legs. They're out for blood." He placed his hand on her knee. "I won't let them harm you."

"You're supposed to be in exile!"

"Sansa," he whispered, pleading. Jon narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on her leg. "What do you want from me?"

"There are few who could handle my honesty, Jon. You're not among them." The pup stretched on the floor, stealing her attention. Playfully growling, the pup stood, climbing as far as he could reach against her leg. Slowly, she bent down, collecting the rascal. She set him in her lap. His paw brushed Jon's hand, which he moved off of her.

"I killed Dany to protect you…" Jon tightened his fists at his side. "You were never going to bend the knee."

"Jon, look at me," Sansa whispered. Lifting his eyes, she sighed. "You abandoned the north from the moment you bent your knee. After everything I did to save your life in the battle against Ramsay…You will never know what asking Littlefinger for help did to me."

"Sansa, stop."

"No, Jon." Her voice was distant, yet exquisitely lethal and practiced. "You were my choice, yet you forced me to surrender my choice again. My pride broke because of you."

Jon's eyes were murderous. "I loved her, Sansa! I did everything I could to ensure peace between her and the north. We built the greatest army to fight against the dead. Yet you constantly challenged her authority, despite me ordering you otherwise." He stood to his full height, looking down his nose at her. "All you had to do was obey."

"I believed in you, Jon. The North loved you." Sansa lifted her nose. "You were no longer my king to obey when you knelt for the Dragon Queen."

Shaking, Jon twisted his features until he looked like he could kill her. "You killed her…"

"You may blame me if you wish." Sansa adjusted in her chair, grabbing the pup in her hands and standing at her full height. Looking down at him, Sansa sadly smiled. "Somewhere deep within you, you know you killed her to clear your own conscience."

Jon shook, eyes burning. Words swirled around him them, words she comprehended. Things between them would never be the same. Sansa knew that now.

"Perhaps we should survey other topics to discuss." Brienne cleared her throat.

"You think you're so clever. You know nothing." Before Jon released the moisture pooling at his eyes, he exhaled and walked away from Sansa.

She didn't look back. Only forward.

Sansa passively sat back down, looking down at the pup licking her hand. Swallowing, she heard Tormund swiftly follow after Jon. A small peace comforted her. At least he wasn't completely alone in his grief. The pup nipped at her hand, and she jumped, gasping and brushing the mutt off her lap. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Have you settled on a name?" Tyrion asked.

Sansa jumped, not knowing when he'd began occupying the seat to her left. Restoring her calm expression, she lifted her mouth. "I think Winter would do, given that he's as much trouble as this winter has been." The pup clumsily trotted over to Tyrion's feet, which dangled off the chair. Rising to his hind legs, he swatted at Tyrion's shoes. "He seems to like you."

Tyrion smirked, the fire highlighting wild mischief in his features. "We've certainly settled our differences."

Sansa's brows twitched together. "What does that mean?"

"Well," he started, sighing. "When we first arrived, he wouldn't let me near you. We feasted on the bear you killed, and I snuck him a few bites. Since then, he doesn't seem to mind my presence."

Sansa laughed. Though the sound was quiet, the echo carried it all over the room. Tyrion's smirk grew, more a large smile now. Sansa bit her lip, which caught his attention.

"Brienne," Bran said.

Sansa inhaled, eyes flying to Bran, who looked at Brienne looking at Tyrion curiously. "Your Grace?" Brienne focused on her king.

"You are relieved of your duties for the night. You are tired. Go get some rest." Bran nodded to her. Brienne stood and walked toward him, bowing. "Send someone to fetch me in a few minutes."

"Yes, Your Grace."

When Brienne left, she closed the doors. Bran turned his head. "Sansa, I'm going to go back to King's Landing in two day's time."

"I shall miss you."

"I'm going to bring my people home with me," he explained.

Sansa fought the urge to look at Tyrion. "As I would expect."

"Except my Hand."

Tyrion adjusted in his chair. "Your Grace?"

Sansa softly chuckled, the strained sound not matching with her peaceful expression. "He's your Hand. Not mine."

"Jon is right, Sansa. The Dothraki are dangerous. With your focus set on repairs, I have a personal interest to ensure your safety. Think of Tyrion as my diplomatic voice in the north to call on at your personal disposal."

"Your Grace, I must, again, advise against this. You made agreements with the Unsullied."

Bran looked to Tyrion. "I made agreements with the Unsullied _and_ the Dothraki, who left behind a substantial portion of their people to wreak havoc on our wounded realm and our infant neighbor."

"Bran, I will be fine."

The king ignored her. "Tyrion, my order is plain. You're not to return to King's Landing until the remaining four moons have passed of my original agreement with the north." Shifting his attention to Sansa, he nodded. "If he displeases you, please point him to the closest inn for him to stay at his personal expense."

Swallowing, Sansa nodded, eyes sliding toward Tyrion before she could stop herself.

The doors opened. Bran glanced at the fire. "Time for my leave."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The next morning, Brienne entered her room, helped her replace her bandages and redress, which was something Sansa was unable to do alone. Any movement encouraged the most pain, now that she'd managed to live with the wounds on her chest. Her body would take weeks to heal, but scars she'd still not had the courage to inventory would remain.

Just like Ramsay's destruction.

Swallowing her water, Sansa slowly rose to move to the window. The white world beyond her room was vast, empty, and barren; yet, daylight highlighted the horizon, empowering her heart to rest for a moment.

"Your Grace," Brienne spoke behind her.

Sansa turned. "Yes?"

"Forgive my lack of decorum. I served you and was loyal to you, so I pray that's enough for me to speak my mind."

"Of course."

"Don't let the Lord Hand sway you."

Sansa recovered from her surprise quickly, shaking her head and offering the knight a passive smile. "Tyrion is a great man."

Brienne closed the distance between them, towering over her. Grasping Sansa's hand between hers, the knight searched the queen's. "I beg you see reason." She swallowed. "He's a Lannister."

Sansa's heart broke for Brienne, who only wanted to protect her. Sansa would always respect this woman. Sansa broke her façade and trembled, allowing her sadness to brew in her eyes. "Brienne," she whispered. Shaking her head, Sansa exhaled. "I respect you so much. I mean not to hurt you when I tell you that he's not Jaime."

Brienne lowered her head, posture sinking. "I just want you to be careful." Brienne cleared her throat. "I could not bear a world where you do not find happiness. Not after everything you've endured."

Sansa's lips trembled. Words were no longer needed, so she only nodded.

Brienne disengaged and turned back, looking at a tray she'd brought. "I only meant to drop it by for you. Sorry to have disturbed, Your Grace." The moment Brienne began to walk to leave, Tyrion emerged at the door. He stepped in the room, moving out of the way, so she could pass. Brienne halted for a second when she reached him. If she wanted to say something, she thought better of it.

"Brienne?" The knight turned as she reached the threshold. Sansa felt her cheeks warm, so she lowered her eyes to her hands. "I do not wish to be disturbed. Please close the door."

After a moment, the door closed. Tyrion cleared his throat, choosing to remain far away from her. "What are you doing?"

"Lock the door." Sansa looked over to him, brushing her hair away from her face. Heat burned her face.

Tyrion stayed still. "Not until I insist knowing what you expect will happen if I do."

Sansa wished Arya was here. Before she departed, Arya had disclosed she'd lain with Gendry before the Long Night. Shivering, Sansa cursed her nerves. It sounded silly: that she was anxious. Years had passed since the last time she'd felt safe since someone last embraced her in comfort.

"Sansa?"

"I just want to be held."

Tyrion exhaled, chuckling to himself. "As you wish," he said, turning the door's lock. Turning, he leaned against the door, staring at her. "Sansa, I don't want you to feel pressured to rush anything."

"Tyrion," Sansa whispered, gripping her robe's sleeve, the fabric spilling between her fingers. "I think the last time I felt wholly safe was before I left for King's Landing those years ago." The blush coloring her cheeks wouldn't ebb. Self-consciously, she rubbed her cheek with her hand. "I want to remember what it feels like."

Tyrion eyed Winter, who slept next to the fire on a pile of torn blanket pieces. "I'm surprised he isn't at your side."

"He's suffocating at best."

"You'd do well to appreciate a good companion loyal to you." Tyrion moved closer to her, eyes on his joined hands. "Are you asking me into your bed, Sansa?"

Easing herself down back into the warmth of the pelts, she stared at him. "There are other things a bed is meant for besides…that."

"And you're volunteering to demonstrate that?" He tilted his head up, taking her in.

"If it pleases you," Sansa whispered. Straightening her shoulders, she willed for enough strength to say, "Eagerly."

Littlefinger had taught her how to puncture a man's defenses. Flirting was a skill at one point she'd taken advantage of with him. Cutting him down by exploiting his weakness for her had thrilled her, emboldened her, to strike back at him…after everything he put her through. Sansa was quickly learning that flirting without the intention of dominance made her stomach shake. She easily identified precisely how she felt while flirting with whom she loved: uncharted and vast.

It was easy to feel lost in her efforts.

Tyrion rounded the bed, relieving himself of his pelt on a chair before resting his hands on her mattress. "Don't analyze," he whispered. Mounting the bed, he sat back on his feet several paces from her. "Let it be just us in this bed."

"I was just thinking of…" Sansa shook her head. "No."

Tyrion crawled closer to her, stopping short of her reach. "Now, Sansa…you said you wanted honesty."

"Littlefinger…claimed to love me." Sansa bit her trembling lip, watching his expression falter. "There were times I had to use my beauty against him, Tyrion. Times I had to manipulate him with flirting…I might have been good at it…before…"

Tyrion continued, finishing his pursuit of her at the center of her bed. "Sansa, let it be just us in this bed." Raising his hand, he searched her eyes when he stopped it from touching. She nodded, and he cupped her jaw, thumb lightly stroking her. "How do I make you feel? Now, in this moment."

Dropping her attention to his mouth, Sansa tried stifling the shiver whispering across her bones. She wanted to let go, but she was not ready. "Tyrion, I…"

He replaced his touch with his mouth, brushing light kisses along her jaw, earning a stiff gasp from her throat. He tickled his nose against her ear until he found her lobe between his teeth, teasing the flesh there.

Sansa closed her eyes, unwilling to allow this feeling to overpower her for much longer. He made no attempt to strip her, nor did he touch her anywhere save for holding the opposite side of her neck.

Tyrion moved, so he cradled her head in his arms. Lowering her slowly back onto the bed, Sansa flinched. The pain on her back still bothered her as much as she willed it away. When he held her underneath him, he lifted his head from her ear, lips twitching. "Let me say it."

Sansa gasped, thankful. She wasn't sure if she could voice it if she tried. She nodded. She lowered her eyes, but he caught her chin. Hesitantly, she looked at him.

Tyrion's brows stretched downward as his smile widened. "I see trepidation," he whispered. Tilting his head to the side, he stroked her with his thumb. "And a furious temptation." He moved his hand from her face to the spot he'd sucked over four moons ago. "Pleasure…" Tyrion continued, holding his eyes steady as he surveyed hers. "Refuge."

Sansa nodded. "Yes," she panted, lungs heavy and breath hot.

Tyrion lowered his head to hers as he pulled the blanket over him. He settled in on his back, waiting for her take the position she preferred.

Sansa nuzzled him until she found the space between his cheek and shoulder. A small piece of his neck exposed itself to her. She didn't know where the thought came from, but she was compelled to test it. She leaned her head back, tickling the crook of his neck with her nose until her lips brushed against the skin. Exhaling, she closed her eyes and reached across his chest, grasping the opposite side of his face and pulling it toward her.

Tyrion froze. "Sansa…" He moaned, chest caving in as he exhaled loudly. "Gods, don't do that again."

"I'm sorry…" It didn't feel good to him. What had she been thinking? She started to pull away, but he stopped her. "Let go…" Her face heated more than it ever had. He couldn't see her embarrassment, so she pulled away from him, looking in the opposite direction.

"Sansa, stop," Tyrion pleaded. He held her where she was. "Stop moving, or your wounds will open." Sansa complied, but she didn't turn to face him. "Sansa, look at me."

"No."

"Look at me."

Sansa closed her eyes, tucking her chin underneath her shoulder. "No…"

"Stop thinking and look at me." She felt him take the ends of her hair into his hand. He reached out and pressed his hand against her back, expertly avoiding the scratch wounds. He _had_ seen them.

"Tyrion, I didn't mean it." Pressing her face into the pillow, she concealed a sigh from him. Swallowing, she spoke, but the fluffy object muffled her words. "It was an accident."

His hands wrapped underneath her, around her throat, until he found the opposite side of her face. Gently, he tugged her attention to him. She resisted, but his strength surprised her. "Look at me!"

Sansa gasped, lifting her head from the bed and flinching as she looked at him.

He swallowed and shook his head. "Don't lie to me." A tear fell from her eyes, and she held still. "I only said that because your lips on me are intoxicating. I wanted to warn you to stop because I don't trust myself with you." Tyrion moved his attention down his body. "That's a problem…"

Sansa chanced a look down, noticing a swell in the blankets where the apex of his thighs should meet. She knew at once that her skin matched the color of her hair. Opening her mouth, she hoped she'd naturally say anything. No words came.

Tyrion's chest heaved, his breath warming her neck as she peered down at him. "Sansa, we will figure all of this out," he said, the words a vow. He brushed the tip of her chin, claiming her bright eyes. Shaking his head, he whispered, exhaling, "Just not today."

Winter yipped, breaking her focus. Sansa looked to Tyrion tentatively. "I'm sorry…I wish I could be different."

"When it's different, Sansa, she isn't you," Tyrion murmured, brushing her hair back. "It has to be you."

Sansa nodded, settling back into the crook of his neck. When Tyrion reached over his chest for her hand, she willingly accepted his touch. Despite their difference in stature, this man perfectly fit the bend of her waist and curve of her hip. He bent the knee opposite of her and brushed through her hair with his free hand. Sansa tucked her legs into her tight, her mid-thigh touching his outstretched leg.

"Your bed is much more comfortable than mine."

Sansa chuckled. "It's a shame we can't share a bed."

"We're sharing a bed now."

"The Dragon Queen laid with her nephew. Cersei was swelling with her twin brother's child. Again," Sansa bit her lip. "If all people accuse me of is sharing a bed with a man, my conscience is clean."

"You'd be surprised at how shocked people will be when they know it's a dwarf warming your bed." Tyrion sighed. "For some reason, my physical appearance was always a worse sin than Jaime and Cersei together." He moved his thumb on her hand. "My father hated me for it. Simply because of an accident of birth."

"Was that before or after the beard?"

Laughter lightened the mood dwelling between them. Tyrion looked down at her. "Before, when I was making my escape from King's Landing after the trial."

"You're very handsome, Tyrion." Sansa could feel his disproval, so she rushed to say, "I've never had a choice with men. I've always been a hostage. Tyrion, I chose you."

When she glanced up at him, she wanted to fix the broken expression on his face. Glassy eyes looked to the window until he evened his breathing. Meeting her hues, he lifted her wrist to his lips, spoiling her flesh with numerous pecks before he placed her hand over his heart. "You make me feel invincible."

Closing her eyes, she inhaled his scent, unable to place it.

"Sleep, Sansa."

No other place in the world did she feel so safe than in his arms.

* * *

**[A/N] **I loved writing this chapter! I love where it ends. **Please review!**


	8. Eight

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **Surprise update! I had unplanned free time to write.

* * *

_**Chapter 8**__**:**_

_Sansa_

* * *

Patting the tears under her eyes, Sansa absently stared at her father in the crypts. Midday, she and Winter found solace in the only place she was surrounded by her family. She was capable of a great many mistakes, and seeing the weight of poor decisions was an important reminder from now and again.

The hatred for the dead was something she often prayed for forgiveness. The genuine guilt was new. The Dragon Queen had complicated her home, destroyed her family, and killed a great number of those whom she loved. Theon crept into her thoughts—not for the first time that week. Whatever atrocities he'd committed, Theon Greyjoy died a hero in her eyes.

The last thing she'd ever told him was that she'd see him soon. Sansa never said goodbye until she torched his cold corpse. They were broken—together somewhat whole. While she'd been safe in the crypts, he'd faced the Night King defending Bran. He'd died, and she hadn't.

Sansa had loved him, too. Unlike her feelings for Tyrion, what connected her to Theon had been all the emotion she'd destroyed with Ramsay. He should have been down here: amongst her family. That was what he was—her brother by bond, if not by blood.

Theon would be her Hand if it weren't for his death. While she couldn't blame Daenerys for losing him, it might have turned out differently for him. The worst part was the not knowing.

Sansa believed she would see Theon again…maybe not so soon.

Hate had become commonplace for her over the last several years. Arya used to be devout to revenge. Sansa's source of strength was her hatred. The crown perched atop her loose hair carried a weight on her soul. Her people needed her to think clearly. She had to be who they needed.

Distance from Tyrion had done her head some good. She loved him. The honesty they vowed to share hadn't yet required her proclamation thus far, though she knew it was only a matter of time. If she'd truly and wholly forgiven him, wouldn't it be easier to press her lips against his?

Although her soul was broken, Sansa didn't know if seeking his comfort was for the best. He would be here for four moons, so his proximity was inevitable, but she prayed for a clearer head. Passion had been something she'd dreamt of since her childhood: of a perfect prince on the whitest horse holding the shiniest sword riding toward her.

Thoughts racing in her mind, she looked at her father's grave. "What do I do, father?"

Her lip trembled. Being with Tyrion was so easy when she blotched out everything keeping them apart. He was Bran's Hand. Tyrion hated the north. They'd already been married. While that's what she pictured when she saw him, would that ever be possible? Winterfell wouldn't accept a Lannister as a king or consort so easily, if ever.

Sansa had abandoned the idea of passion long ago, had buried it even. She was practical, rational. A strategist, Sansa believed that duty was something that was synonymous with love. Sansa's only love for the better part of recent memory had been her people.

"Your Grace," Davon whispered. "You sent for me?"

Looking to her side, a placid smile emerged on its own. "Yes, I need you to see that this letter gets into the right hands."

"Is that all Your Grace?"

Nodding, Sansa touched his shoulder affectionately. "You may go." The queen watched him as he left, passing a thick, black figure before proceeding up the stairs. She smoothed out her expression when she saw it was Jon. "Hello."

Jon stopped where he was, eyes following Davon up the stairs until they were alone. He made no move toward her. "You shouldn't be down here alone when you have a bounty on your life, Your Grace."

"We are alone, Jon."

"Sansa…"

"Will it always be like this, brother?" Sansa joined her hands behind her and walked several paces toward him.

His dark gaze slipped away. "Only Bran can know the future."

"I don't want you to hate me."

"I could never hate you," Jon quipped, meeting her distant gaze. "You don't have to call me your brother." He shook his head. "You know who I am."

Sansa swallowed. "I don't care who you are. If you choose to identify as Targaryen, Stark, or Snow, you're still my brother." She evened out her erratic heartbeat with a deep sigh. "Winterfell will always be your home."

"Do you mean that?"

Sansa could only nod.

"Sansa, I don't know who I am anymore." The dirt on the ground crunched under his boots as he stepped closer to her. "I know I've made many mistakes…"

"So have I…"

They shared a look until he nodded. "I tried to ride north of the wall and stay," he said, mouth flattening as he scratched his head. "North of the north no longer makes sense to me."

"Why did you leave?"

Jon reached for her gloved hand, clasping it between his thicker gloves. "I had a dream you would die. Bran won't confirm if it was his doing or not." He dipped his brows as a smile broke his frown, quietly laughing. "I'm still not sure what he does, to be honest…"

Sansa laughed, bending her fingers in his grasp. "It's best you do not question him on it." Her father's grave ensnared her focus briefly until a brighter smile broke. Looking to her brother, she said, "Jon, you and the Wildlings you brought with you may stay. You are most welcome, even if the Queen of Winterfell was an ass to you."

Jon laughed. "You're cursing now?"

Sansa smiled, shaking her head. "Don't get used to it. I'm not sure I like its corrupt texture passing my lips." She tilted her head and lifted a hand to his hair, moving it back. "I only wanted to hear you laugh."

"I am sorry, Sansa." Jon glanced at her father's grave. "For so much."

Sansa cupped his cheek, nodding. "I owe you a great deal, Jon. You alone saved the North and Six Kingdoms. I'm not sure how else we could have stood a chance without her." Sighing, she whispered, "I allowed my jealousy to rule my actions." She made sure he gave her his undivided attention. "I will never make that mistake again."

"Jealousy?"

"At the time, we'd barely found a way to get along. You gave me purpose," she admitted. "And hope."

"Hope? For what?" He narrowed his eyes.

"For men."

Jon kissed her forehead. "Sansa."

Closing her eyes, she smiled. "Let's leave the past where it belongs. It's easy to see the mistakes after a war's end and blame someone for those mistakes."

His brows sank, and his smile fell.

Sansa lifted the flap of a bag she wore across her torso, procuring a metal object. "It would bring me a great deal of happiness and honor if you would accept the role of my Hand."

Jon's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. He looked from her to the Hand's pin she'd had made weeks ago. "Sansa, I know not the first thing of being a Hand."

"Then don't be my Hand. Join my Small Council as my Master of War and Commander of the Queensguard if you wish."

"You're serious?"

Sansa held the pin against her abdomen, nodding. "We're stronger…together."

Jon stepped away from her, and Sansa narrowed her eyes. "Yesterday we slaughtered each other."

"My head's been all over the place recently, but I'm clear now. It's easy to give into hate, allow it to fester and to take over," she replied. "I offer you a place in a world where we don't have to be alone, Jon. We're all we have left." She sighed. "I know this won't cure the fractures separating us, but I hope it could build a bridge—be a start."

Jon blinked several times, not moving a muscle for a moment. She thought he would refuse until he grasped his sword and knelt down before her. "You're Grace…" His shoulders heaved. "My sword is yours. My life is your shield."

Sansa shook, dropping to her knees and clutching his face in her hands. "Thank you…" She enveloped him on her arms, and they cried together in the crypt—the only place in the whole world where family surrounded them.

— — — — — — — — — — —

The metal Hand pin passed from Sansa's right hand to the other. Sighing, she opened a drawer and gently rested it inside. There was much to still decide, but Sansa knew her Hand should be family or someone she wholly trusted. The problem with both of those options was that Jon wasn't the right fit and was the last of her available kin. Those she trusted had died or served a king in another realm.

A new day, a new set of problems…

A knock at her private chamber's door prompted her to slide the drawer shut. "You may enter."

"Your Grace!" Sansa stood. A girl not many years younger than she stood. She had black hair and stark green eyes. Her nose was too big, but it strangely complimented her otherwise average looks.

"Are you all that's left?"

The girl circled her thumbs to her index fingers and joined them at her waist, elbows bending as she fidgeted before her queen. "Yes, ma'am—I-I mean, Your Grace!"

"Your name?"

"Lysa Blackbriar…I'm a very distant relation to the late Lady Mormont."

Sansa's brows drew together. "I'm not familiar with your family."

The girl stepped closer to her. "I did specify…_very distant_, I said."

"Do you have any questions?"

Lysa's features crumbled. "I know I was told I wouldn't be able to see my family very often…if at all…but could I still write? I simply adore my father, you see!"

Sansa offered her a single nod. "Of course."

Lysa beamed. "Great!"

"If this is to work, I have to trust you. I've had companions who…well, they didn't end very well." Sansa lifted her nose. "Swear before me that what you witness in this room or in my presence will remain private."

"Yes, Your Grace!"

Sansa winced. This girl was quite loud. She wasn't from a traditional highborn family, but she could always aid in that regard. "My trust is earned. You'll do well and remember that."

Sansa turned around to the mirror, biting her lip and looking away. Now was not the time to break her focus. The queen shifted her gaze in the mirror, watching Lysa. "There is one thing you will do."

"All you have to do is ask!"

Sansa turned. "Control your voice and enthusiasm. It's been a while since I last was around someone so…cheery."

Lysa pressed her lips together, only nodding.

"Good. You can begin your duties now by helping me dress in something more…anything." The robes were not proper for a queen. The pain didn't limit her as much now. She'd acclimated to the bulk of it. Normal dresses would be harder to move in, but they were better for someone of her rank. Nodding, she motioned for her new companion to help her into the dress she'd already chosen.

— — — — — — — — — — —

Sansa inhaled the crisp, frosty air outside the castle, thankfully rid of Lysa for now. The dress she wore was a simple gown the color of running water under a layer of ice cropped at her ankles. Her sleeves weren't flashy, nor were her pelts. A dragging dress worked in King's Landing but not along the snow.

Turning, Sansa inspected the progress of the repairs with Winter in tow. The blasted beast moved when she breathed. It would take several moons…likely many years before it was adequately restored.

Winterfell would be home—in pieces or not.

"Your Grace," Tyrion greeted from behind.

Sansa looked down, careful to keep her crown from moving by maintaining her poised posture. "My Lord." A small smile warmed her otherwise neutral expression. "I was heading to the Godswood. Join me?"

"Of course."

Together, they walked in mostly silence. An occasional compliment to the repairs slipped his lips along the way. When they arrived, Sansa claimed the rock she favored and sat, waiting for him to do the same. Winter chased after a leave somewhere around the tree, leaving them alone.

"I heard you chose Jon to be your Master of War _and_ Commander of the Queensguard," Tyrion said. For once, she could not read his underlying message.

Sansa nodded.

"I saw him with several ladies…asking questions." Tyrion sighed, rubbing his hands together. "Chose your court companion…"

"She's very cheerful…much too happy to live in a place like this."

"All without including me…"

The wind dallied around them, making the leaves whisper. "You're not my Hand."

"No, but it's why I'm here…" Tyrion countered. "To help."

Sansa licked her lips, looking at the pure white snow for guidance on her wayward thoughts. "Tyrion, we need to talk."

Tyrion sighed. When she looked back at him, she watched as his shoulders sagged. "The words a man never wants to hear from a woman…" He met her gaze. "What inspired this much-needed chat?"

"The only day I've felt like a queen was the day they named me," she confessed. "Since then, I haven't worn this because I was helping with rebuilding alongside my people, or I was out killing bears."

"Sansa, I beg you…"

"I told you it would never work between us."

Tyrion rushed to claim her hands in his, eyes pleading. "My loyalties are no longer divided."

The leaves, the snow, and the tree…they offered no solace or comfort. Sansa reigned control over herself, cutting off the pain powering her heart. "It would be treason to swear your loyalty to the queen of a different realm, Tyrion."

"It would be the last time anyone could accuse me of it, Sansa." He reached for her face, and she stupidly allowed the contact. "Once given, I would carry my loyalty for you until my dying days."

"You're supposed to serve my brother, Tyrion," Sansa whispered, clutching his wrist.

"I was supposed to do plenty of things I chose to neglect." Tyrion shook his head and rested his head against hers. "Throw me away in a cell again, I care not."

"What did you advise Daenerys do with her lover overseas?"

Tyrion's hands shook against her, fingers repositioning on her to keep hold of her against the racket. Tears distorted his raging eyes. He did nothing to stop them from falling. "I'll not dignify that with a response."

The years of suffering and loss ignited within her. When her shoulders began to shake, she closed her eyes. "Because you're on the other side of the advice."

"I may not be worthy of a crown, but I cannot lose you…"

Sansa kissed him. "And I cannot settle for a lover…" The wind picked up, and the leaves almost sounded angry. "I'm a queen, Tyrion. A queen needs an heir, and I want a family. My people expect a husband for me…"

"We were married once."

Sansa wiped a tear before it fell too far down her cheek and placed a hand on his heart. "You're a Lannister, my people would never accept you with me."

"I helped secure peace, named Bran as _king_…" Tyrion's voice broke. "I know how to help run a realm. I would work until the end of my days fighting to restore Winterfell."

"If there's any chance for you, I cannot bear to take it from you." Bringing her gloved finger to his cheek, she wiped at his hot tears, hand lingering against him. "It's too late for me."

"Fuck it…" Tyrion reached over her shoulder and balled her hair into his fist, shoving his mouth against hers. His lips weren't gentle. They were desperate, hungry.

Sansa closed her eyes and moaned, reaching for his whatever clothes she could grab hold of. The wind stopped and flew toward her, sending her hair dancing. He pulled back but resealed his mouth on hers. Sansa gasped, opening her mouth, and his tongue invaded her with expert skill. Tears welled, and she pulled away and flung her eyes open. "Tyrion, I don't…" He met her gaze and crashed back into her. Mid-sob, Sansa's mouth opened for him again, but this time he took it slow, teasing his tongue below hers until he switched and brought it above. Slowly, she caught onto the technique

Sansa's heart flew in her chest, the force so powerful that she straightened her posture, matching his pressure and challenging him for dominance. Tyrion's eyes sagged close. Her fluttered shut, too. His tight grip on her hair eased, his hands moving to cradle the back of her head. Courage gathered in her heart, which flowed to her mind. Sansa lifted her hands to fan through his hair. She lost her breath, so she pulled away, inhaling quickly before he chased her mouth.

Tyrion's moans were loud. She feared she was louder, but she did her best to catalog that in her mind, wanting nothing more than more of what he offered her. He never moved his hands to an inappropriate spot on her body. He comforted her, encouraged her, by stroking the side of her face and lighting massaging the base of her head.

Crashing her chest into his, Sansa gasped, unused to the activity. It left her breathless. "Tyrion…"

"…I know." Together they matched the pace he'd set, their tongues thrashing more and more out of control. She felt his hands shake. "Gods, Sansa…" She peeked at him, seeing his brows dip.

Sansa didn't have the same stamina he'd built, so she broke for a reprieve, to catch her breath. Tyrion hunted her mouth until he found it again, pressing urgent kisses that melted something within her. Sansa was eager to continue, but someone cleared their throat.

Tyrion stopped his efforts and she froze. Her chest flattened against his as they struggled to breathe. She opened her eyes, seeing his still closed. She darted her eyes around, not moving away from where Tyrion held her.

"Leave us, Jon…"

"Get up, Tyr-"

Sansa rested her forehead against Tyrion's and moved her finger to his lower lip. Shaking her head slightly, Sansa closed her eyes but turned in Jon's direction. "Just go, Jon…We'll talk later."

Neither Sansa nor Tyrion moved. Together, they listened to Jon's fleeting footsteps. "He's going to kill me…" Sansa found his mouth again. He accommodated her with an intoxicated whimper.

Tyrion broke apart, sparing her one last, chaste kiss before parting from her. He shook against her. Eyes still shut, he pressed his lips on her cheek, on her nose, and on her chin. "That…is how you kiss someone properly." He swallowed and his chest erratically heaved.

Sansa's cheeks warmed. She brushed her nose against his cheek, mouth close to his ear. "I like your tongue."

Tyrion choked, recovering with an unexpected chuckle. "That bodes well for me."

Sansa's brows dipped. "Did I say something odd?"

"No…"

The wind was calm now. Sansa hadn't realized it had settled. Each breath they took was in unison, both gasping in the aftereffects of their passion. "What are going to do?"

"It's too late for me, too." Tyrion finally opened his eyes, smiling and gulping. "I can't willingly part from you. No more."

"I may have no choice…"

"You're the queen of a new kingdom."

Sansa searched his eyes. "I can't impose on my people."

Tyrion captured her lips. "I'm thinking…"

"It doesn't seem that way…"

"Trust me, I'm thinking about quite a lot right now…" Tyrion moved to gently bit her ear lobe.

Sansa moaned. "Be serious." She pulled away from him, looking at her hands. "If there's a way this could work, I want to know it now."

Tyrion shook his head. "I don't have an answer right now."

"Tyrion…"

"Sansa?"

Sansa calmed her body, breathing in and out a few times. "I want no part of blind love. We have to be reasonable, rationale."

Tyrion brushed the top of her hand, his touch almost unfelt. "We're two of the most clever people in Westeros."

"We both made a few mistakes due to severe lapses in judgment. You must always arm yourself with your wits."

Tyrion nodded. "I know."

"For now, don't come to my bed. Do not hope to inspire me with your passion."

"Sansa…"

"I will not lose sight of Winterfell. That is something I cannot afford."

Tyrion nodded. "What of us?"

Sansa lowered her hands and backed away. "Earn the love of my people, or I fear I will be right again."

"Sansa?"

"Yes, Tyrion?"

"Do you trust me?"

Sansa pressed her lips to his with gentle, temperate pressure. When she pulled away, she gulped. "Almost." With the last remaining flow of wind, the trees settled down as she stood up. "Come, Winter." The pup chased her slow pace until he walked beside her.

Tyrion knew his way around words. He could shower her with pretty phrases and stolen kisses, but until she could see it as solid as the crown she wore, Sansa steeled her heart for when she had to part with him. She prayed to the Seven they would guide her to the strength she would need.

* * *

**[A/N] **I'm sorry if there are parts of this story that you don't agree with perfectly. I've suffered many forms of depression in different seasons of my life. Sometimes you need someone so much, it's hard to reason with yourself or with reality. I tried depicting that with Sansa this chapter. Regarding Jon, you can't just magically stop being angry or blaming someone you're convinced was wrong, but you can forgive them. I hope you see that there is a journey for all of our characters at the edge of such a horrific war's end.

**Please review!**


	9. Nine

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **I love the way this story is going. Thank you for all your kind words. I don't know when Tyrion's POV will return. This chapter was SUPPOSED to be it, but nope. Many of you are worried about the ending of this story. Don't be. I'm writing them a story I believe they deserve (imo). Enjoy.

* * *

_**Chapter 9**__**:**_

_Sansa_

* * *

The large door slammed shut after she entered the room. Sansa jumped, tripping until a hand caught her by the elbow to steady her. "What was _that_?"

The urge to remind him her business wasn't his concern nearly ruptured her patience. It was his business—sort of. "Don't scare me like that again!"

"Sansa, I'm not bickering with you about this." Jon gently let her go and backed away. "I may not be your Hand, but since you call brother, you will listen to me."

"What's the problem with me kissing a man?"

Jon stalked toward her until he chased her backward. Sansa stumbled down into a chair behind her. "That was not just _a_ man! He's Tyrion Lannister! A _Lannister_!" Jon shoved a hand in his dark hair. "He's the Hand of the Dragon Queen you so admonished, the man who encouraged me to betray his queen and KILL said queen!"

"Tyrion is a good man, Jon."

Jon grabbed the sides of her face, the pressure increasing. For a moment, she thought he would snap her head in two. When she winced, he widened his eyes and eased his touch. "You're a queen, Sansa. He's highborn, but he's no good for a woman in the north. His family slaughtered our blood. His fucking sister put your wolf to death and tortured you with her son for years!"

"Enough, Jon…" Sansa moved out of his grasp, back turned. "No more!"

"Tyrion loved Dany, Sansa!" When she looked at him again, he looked down and battled with a sad sigh. "He loves _her_."

"I knew he did from the moment I saw him look at her." Sansa adjusted her posture, squaring her shoulders. "We've talked a lot about all this, Jon." Biting her lip, Sansa put her hand on his shoulder. "It's been handled."

Jon shoved her hand away. "You just don't handle feelings like love."

"His love was not a mirror of yours."

Opening his mouth, he glared at her. "Sansa, he isn't a good man. The last days of Dany's life could have turned out much different if his head had been on straight." When she shook her head and formed words on her mouth, he stopped her. "She was my aunt. That didn't seem to bother her, but it cut me deeply. I had conflict, and I could have handled that much better, but Sansa…" Jon softened his eyes. "A man like him in love is a death sentence. He's whored around for Gods know how long, and he's been a close ally to every last enemy of the Starks."

Sansa looked away, but he caught her cheeks, brushing his thumbs on her affectionately. "Jon, he was good to me in King's Landing. He never touched me," she explained. Shaking her head and searching his eyes, she continued. "Tyrion showed me the only kindness I knew whilst I was there. I didn't recognize it then, but it's clear to me now that his marriage offered me safety and protection."

"Is protection what you're worried about?" Jon smiled, believing he'd solved a lost riddle. "I'm here now. You don't have to be afraid anymore."

Sansa closed her eyes, desperate to find patience. "Jon, I lived every single day in King's Landing as if it were to be my last. My life fell into the mercy of Joffrey's cruel hands. The only true peace I've known since leaving Winterfell is when he's with me."

"Sansa…"

"Please listen to me!" With a reluctant nod, Jon crossed his arms over his chest. Sansa sighed. "Tyrion is the reason I'm alive. I do my best, Jon, but I know I'm no warrior or assassin. I have no instincts to count on in battle; instead, my talents will always be political by nature. Tyrion is a man who places a priceless value on his own life, yet he always protects me when it most counts. He makes mistakes, but so have I. Through cruelty of birth and mockery of the masses, he's dedicated his life to knowledge. Although a slow learner, I've learned how to play the political game and gamble against sleuth and scrutiny."

Jon sat down on the table, resting his wrist on his sword. "I don't like this, Sansa…"

Joining her hands behind her, Sansa fixed a neutral, easy smile on her mouth. "What does love feel like for you?"

He drew his head back, eyes narrowing. "Sansa."

"Just answer the question."

Jon chuckled, his features heavy. "If I had to put it into words, I'd say it's unexpected, grounding, and fulfilling when it's good love. When it's a bad love, it's poisonous mixed with a taste of pleasure you'll never know without that person. You don't know it's a bad love until your conscience speaks to you…by then, it's too late to save."

Sansa sat beside him on the table, bringing her hands to her lap. "I was a petulant child, but Joffrey was the bad love of my life," she whispered. "Do you want to know what good love is like for me?"

Jon twisted to face her. "Yes."

"It's frightening, yet somehow safe all at once." Sansa looked down at her hands. "Tyrion frightens me. He makes me feel safe."

Jon grabbed her hand, bringing the back of her gloved hand to his lips and sighing. "Have you both…"

Sansa's cheeks warmed. "Tyrion has always been kind to me."

"That's not an answer, Sansa." Jon laughed.

"No, alright?" She looked at him. "For a moment, I thought I could do it…have a lover. Gods know all the queens I've known have had them…"

Jon tapped his shoulder against hers. "What changed?"

"It's not who I am," Sansa admitted. Swallowing, she brushed her hair back behind her ears. "I've never talked to you about this stuff."

"You've talked about this before? With whom?"

Sansa's eyes grew and lips sealed to a flat line. "I can't tell you that."

"Who was it? Someone in King's Landing?"

"If I tell you, you'll be angry again."

Drawing his head back, Jon huffed. "Out with it!"

"Arya!"

"That's not funny, Sansa…"

"Believe me or don't. She wasn't the least bit helpful, anyway." Shaking her head. "This isn't about Arya…" Looking at him shyly, Sansa bit her lip. "I thought things like passion were gone for good for me. Tyrion showed me that they're a part of who I am, but I'm a queen. I must honor my people."

Jon was tense beside her, but after a few seconds, he relaxed, sighing. "And how will you do that? By kissing him openly for all the world to see?" She remained quiet. He lifted his eyes to her, expelling the air from his lungs slowly. He dragged his hand over his face, growling. "Does he make you happy, Sansa?" Jon stood from the table and neared her. "After everything, you deserve to be happy."

"I know I'm happiest when I'm with him." Sansa swallowed, peering down at the floor. "We have yet to explore all we might be."

Jon touched her face and grasped her arm, squeezing a little until he wrapped his arms around her, careful of her wounds. "I don't like this, but I'm willing to give it a chance for your sake."

"This might be the worst idea I've ever had," Sansa stared at a goblet on the table behind him. Eventually, she enveloped him and turned her face in his shoulder. "As queen, I must always do what is best for my people."

"Duty is the death of love." Jon sniffled against her hair. Quietly, he broke down against her.

Sansa tightened her arms around him. "No, Jon. Duty should be because of love."

"And if two loves are at odds?"

Sansa brushed through his hair at the base of his head. "You do what is right, what your heart tells you is good."

— — — — — — — — — — —

The sound of fingers tapping on a wooden table filled Sansa's office. Pinching her lips together, posture stiff, and jaw clenching, Sansa closed her eyes, praying to the Seven for patience.

The small round table clearly wasn't enough space for the two men she sat between. Of the four chairs, Sansa occupied the one closest to her desk. To her right, her brother sat, arms crossed and mouth downturned. Cold eyes bore into the man his opposite. Tyrion stared at his goblet, slouching and supporting his head on the chair's arm with his balled fist.

"Do you both plan on acting like this the whole time?" Sansa raised her brow, eyes darting between them. Lips pursed, Sansa scowled, dipping her shaking head in her hands. Groaning, she straightened and slammed her hands against the table, staring at its center. "We don't have time for this. Until my Small Council is formed, we're the only acting voices in Winterfell. We must learn to work together."

Jon's eyes hardened just as he began complaining, while Tyrion started to defend himself. Sansa heard none of what they said due to both drowning the other out. Slamming her hands to her ears, she shouted and grabbed her hair. "While we're in this room you're not my brother and…guest. You're my Master of War and Commander of the Queensguard and an advisor." Sansa looked between them. "Okay?"

Jon lowered his chin, leaning back in his chair. Tyrion sipped his wine. Eventually, both muttered something she interpreted as an agreement.

"Good," Sansa stood and moved to her desk, grabbing a stack of opened letters. "I've been quite busy establishing eyes all around Winterfell—both to hear word of Dothraki whereabouts and to learn more of the political challenges I'll be facing."

"You're running a spy network?" Jon sighed, but he sounded impressed. "How'd you manage?"

Sansa tried stopping her eyes from moving to Tyrion, but his gaze was already settled on her. Sharing a brief look, she glanced at Jon. "When the Dragon Queen was here, I paid attention to many things. Most importantly, I discovered The Spider's web. Once news of Varys' reached us, I offered the few connections I'd found shelter and safety. It's quite small, but it's growing. I've learned a great deal."

Jon sank in his seat. Tyrion downed the rest of the cup, setting it on the table afterward. Jon cleared his throat, shaking his head for clarity. "What exactly have you learned?"

"I've found hidden routes away from the main roads to take my people to safer locations until this Dothraki nonsense ebbs via old trade routes."

Tyrion chuckled. "You thought of that?"

"A bit of light reading." Sansa smiled. "Castle Black and the New Lord of The Dreadfort have graciously volunteered to take in a majority of those who live Winter Town and around Winterfell. I know a number of people will refuse to leave their homes, but if we have the chance to spare even a few lives, I want to take every measure of safety possible."

"Traveling halfway across the north is hardly safe." Jon rested his elbows on the table, staring at her.

"That is why everyone shall be offered the choice to go or not. We have enough supplies and food to get two-thirds settled and taken care of for three months. By reopening the trade routes, we'll be able to share resources more easily. There are those in the North less fortunate than we are."

"Two birds," Tyrion quietly said. "One proverbial stone." Lifting his brows, he reached for his cup. Bringing it to his lips, he quickly realized there was nothing left.

"Caravans draw too much attention, so it will be at a steady pace." Sansa looked at Jon. "Can you handle bolstering Winterfell's defenses and arranging escorts for the trade convoys?"

Nodding, her brother reached across the table to take her hand. "I'll handle everything."

Sansa pulled away and looked to Tyrion. "Do we have any other options?"

"Unless you have any other resource in abundance you're willing to part with…" Tyrion sat up, reviewing a few papers scattered before him. "I see no way around borrowing."

A knock at the door broke Sansa's focus. "You may enter." When the door opened, Lysa poked her head in. "Is something the matter?"

"Of course not, Your Grace…well, now that you mention it…" Lysa pressed her lips flat. "Winter is awfully rowdy this morning. I was hoping it would be okay to drop him off with his mother."

Sansa's face tensed. "I'm the mother of nothing," she snapped. Dropping her eyes at the young direwolf now nearing the size of a grown wolf. Winter rushed passed her and toward Sansa. "No." Winter whined, but she just sighed, pointing to the corner of the room by the window. He decided to obey her silent command. She looked to Lysa. "You may go."

Lysa balked, pulling in the rascal and bowing. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." The door closed.

"Don't you think that was a bit rude, Sansa?" Jon sighed. "I thought I did well in choosing her."

"You did your best." Sansa looked to Winter, whose eyes were on her. She closed her eyes and rolled her head back, stretching the muscles in her shoulders. When she rolled to the left slightly too far, her shoulder stung. She sucked in air through clenched teeth. Leaning her head back against the chair, she opened her eyes. "I cannot wait for these wounds to heal…"

"It could have gone much worse." Jon moved his arms on the table.

Sansa regarded him. "Jon, will you leave us to wrap things up?"

Narrowing his eyes on Tyrion, he sighed. "Is that a wise idea?"

"We'll find out."

Jon stood, turning to her. "As you command, Your Grace."

When the door closed, Sansa deflated against the chair, inhaling slowly. Shoulder sagging once more, she leaned forward. "There is another way, albeit a short-term option."

Tyrion sat back in his chair, letting the papers clumsily scatter back in front of him. "Go on."

"I've tasked Lysa was gathering up bits and baubles around the castle. Some of my mother's things."

Straightening his posture, Tyrion closed his eyes and pinched his brows. "You mean to part with your late mother's possessions?"

"That's why I sent Jon away. He wouldn't approve, but I refuse to seek the aid of the Six Kingdoms so quickly, Tyrion."

"I wish you were consistent on your stance with the Six Kingdoms. You accept His Grace's Hand for guidance, yet you reject the possibility of other aid."

Sansa set her hand on the table, her outer finger sliding over the top of his. When he looked at her, she swallowed. "One man isn't the whole realm."

"Your people won't see it that way."

"Why can't I sell my things, Tyrion?"

Capturing her hand in his, he said, "Because they're your family's relics."

"They're just things. I'll always have them in my head."

"You say that now…Sansa," Tyrion paused, resting his blank, distant stare on their joined hands. "I'd give anything to have had a day with my mother."

"I wish it had been different for you."

Tyrion locked onto her. "Don't say that." Reaching for his cup, he sipped again. When nothing came, he dropped it to the floor with an eye roll. Swallowing, Tyrion evened his racing breathing with a sigh. "Everything I've endured…I'd do it all over again."

Sansa opened her mouth, sure she knew what words to say that would ease him; however, nothing came to mind. She reached for him with her other hand, but he caught it and brought the back of her hand to his lips. "Again and again, until I reached you." Pulling her hand to the side of his face, he nuzzled his nose against her sleeve until it rose, exposing a small part of her wrist. Pressing his lips on the cold flesh, Tyrion closed his eyes and repeated the action twice more. His breath quickened, his lips brushing her flesh until he surprised her with a gentle nip. "Back at this very moment."

"Tyrion," Sansa gasped.

When she leaned over, he lowered her hand, his hands shaking. "To these small fragments of time we have together. Sansa, please don't readily spare yourself from her things."

Sansa sobered, head shaking. Tugging on her arm, she scrunched her nose. He didn't let her go. Gulping, she parted her lips. "Why does this mean so much to you?"

Tyrion brought her fingers to his lips. "The same reason why you don't want to love Winter. The past."

"Lady has nothing to do with Winter." Sansa hauled her hands away from him and bolted out of her chair and turning her back to him. The direwolf in the corner of the room spooked, quickly righting himself with a whine. "Leave me."

"I won't."

Tears stung her eyes. Buried wounds beckoned to be broken if not to flood the world with her blood. Chest burning and heaving, she looked over her shoulder down her nose at him. "I never wanted him to follow me!"

Tyrion flattened his hands, approaching her as if she were one of Daenerys' dragons. "Then why did you save him?"

"I had no reason."

"Sansa, you nearly died for the pup." Tyrion swallowed. "He's lain at your side since you were on the healer's bed. You've barely shown him the affection he's starving for." She shook her head, sealing her eyes to the floor in front of her. His footsteps stopped. He was so close. "You want a taste of what used to be. Admit it…"

Sansa whipped around, her red locks flying after her until it pounded against her shoulder and chest, quickly cascading and swinging. "Is that the reason why you patroned the whore house for weeks after what we shared? To have a taste of what used to be?" Sansa contained the tears that begged to be set loose, though her chin trembled.

"Shout at me, hit me, hurt me…Sansa, I care not what you do with me." Tyrion moved his shoulders back, sucking in his cheeks and dragging his tongue against his lower teeth. Eyes twitching, he shrugged. "You can't keep everyone at arm's length. In order to find love, you must first keep your heart open."

He brought her to her knees. She grabbed him by his collar, pulling him in as she battled for control. Flashes of every soul she'd ever loved danced across her mind. Distant words painted her thoughts. "I can't remember what her voice sounded like. Not any of them." A thick, hot tear burst from her glassy eyes. "All your sister had to do was not bed her brother. Joffrey would have never existed, and my family would still be here if it weren't for yours! Lady wouldn't have…maybe she would have grown like Ghost. She could have saved me from…" Her hands trembled. Her chest convulsed as she gasped for breath. She hyperventilated, clutching at her chest. Coughing, she looked down at the floor, tears splattering against the stone surface like rain. She crossed her hands over her chest and grasped either arm, leaning forward and rocking back and forth as she sobbed uncontrollably.

The world slipped away, suddenly plucked from reality and cast back in time—back when her father was beheaded before her eyes, back when Joffrey tormented her at every chance and hearing about her mother and family being killed off one by one. The fear she'd felt walking arm in arm with Joffrey up to Tyrion at their wedding broke her all over again. The weight of their wedding night, undressing for a man she'd only heard scandalous rumors about, caved in over her.

Then there was the bed Ramsay made her bend over on. Fabric whispered between her hands, spilling between her fingers—just like that night. The tightness of the dress threatened to suffocate her. A laugh shrieked behind her just as she screamed as her maidenhood broke for him.

Hands burned her shoulders through the thick layers of fabric. This time, she would kill him! He wouldn't hurt her this time. The hands grasped her wrists, and she used her whole body to move away, but they found her again.

They weren't Ramsay's. They were smaller but strong and steady. They were so powerful that they froze her, slowly wiping the pain away. Everywhere on her body was cold except her tear-drenched face. Lifting her head, the room flashed back to where she'd been whisked.

Shivers splintered all senses except touch. She shuddered, struggling to find air to fill her chest. Tears stung her eyes, breaking and bending reality. Forever squeezed into mere seconds, but her vision cleared, revealing Tyrion looking down at her. He knelt before her, now moving closer. His bent knees padded her head as she lowered it, eyes darting as shame flooded her body.

"I've been so scared…"

Tyrion stroked her hair, saying nothing.

Sansa needed to anchor herself to him, fearing she'd fly back to the world she was a prisoner of at night. She patted the ground with her shuddering hand, finding the fabric at his thigh. Decorum had no place in her mind at this moment.

"I don't want to feel anymore…"

Tyrion adjusted and shifted out of her view. He withdrew from her briefly, but stayed close enough, so she could still clutch his pants. He gently ushered her from the floor, delicately guiding her to sit. He scooted back a few inches and slid his hand from her elbow to her fingertips.

Sansa crawled into him, settling against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. She clutched at his shirt possessively as he adjusted her pelt from her shoulders to drape over them like a blanket.

"You were right," Tyrion murmured, his voice vibrating across his chest. "We are equals." Sansa looked at him, meeting his soft eyes until he brushed her cheek and kissed her eyelids. He swallowed against her temple. "You feel as much as I do…if not a bit more."

Stretching his arm to his side, Sansa lifted her head, rising until she matched his eye level, her cheek on his arm and head comforted by his balled up pelt. Tears subsiding, she burned her hues in his, slowly lowering her hand down his chest until she reached his belt. Pulling his shirt up, she dipped her eyes to his lips but did not close the distance. Switching back to his easy stare, she dug her way up her shirt, feeling hair, scars, and hot flesh.

Tyrion gasped, quaking at her touch but never moving his eyes from hers. She settled her hand over his heart. Twitching his brows together, he swallowed and exhaled.

Sansa reached up to play with the ends of his beard. His lips folded inward, but worked his free hand beneath her pelt, slithering up until he placed his hand over hers. Sansa adjusted herself, earning her more proximity to him.

Resting her forehead to his, she lifted her nose over his, provoking his lip to curl. Searching his eyes, she pecked his lips a few times before pulling away, opting to settle her head against his and resting her eyes. He gasped, clutching her fingers under his shirt. His chest moved up and down at an increasing pace until he nudged her. Her eyelids fluttered open in sync with a small smile.

Tyrion's mouth hung open, head and hands quivering. "I love you, Sansa."

Sansa pressed her lips to his, lingering for a moment. Adjusting her fingers in his, she closed her eyes. A few seconds later, Winter settled at her back, licking the spot on the side of her face. With another whine, the direwolf rested his head on her shoulder.

Shortly after, sleep took her.

* * *

**[A/N] **We'll get back to our regularly scheduled plot after this chapter.

**Please review!**


	10. Ten

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **Thank you for enjoying this story! Thank you for reading.

* * *

_**Chapter 10**__**:**_

_Sansa_

* * *

Ghost rested in the snow, not the least bit threatened by Winter pulling at his ear. Yawning, the large beast rolled onto his back and pawed at the young pup. Their difference in size, at first, had made Sansa nervous. However, Ghost was very gentle and never took their play too far. When he grew tired of the pup, he nipped at Winter once, who would sigh and find something else on which to focus his attention.

Work at Winterfell had paused, people lined up all the way to the gates as they had for the Dragon Queen and her army. More of her people were better bundled than they had been in a while. Many of the villagers had sold their best pelts for food in the beginning—before she schooled herself on their finances.

Sansa was skilled in the political arena; however, the area of running her own kingdom she liked least was coin. Lord Royce had led her to a few people within the North to establish their foundation, but she was grateful not to have to tinker too much with numbers these days.

Somewhere within the few moments she'd left the castle, Sansa had fidgeted with her hands enough to pluck a glove from her hand. Passing it between her hands, her eyes stayed to the gate.

"Were you this way when I returned?" Jon stood at her side, hand reaching for her and bringing it to his mouth. Breathing heated air on her, her fingers flexed as they thawed.

Sansa looked at him, smiling and pulling away. Exhaling, she pulled her glove back on. "No," she said, her voice soft. "This is different."

"Your Grace?" Tyrion stepped closer but kept an appropriate distance from her.

Eyes affixed to the gate, Sansa shook her head. "I know what Lord Royce wants."

"…which is?"

She didn't have time to answer Tyrion's question. The leader of the Eyrie caravan passed into the walls. Horses and infantry guards marched into the yard until carriages filed in. On the third, two men rode outside, holding onto decorative pieces jutting from the rolling vehicle.

Tyrion laughed, stepping toward the older man who jumped off the transport. Each of his steps sent the snow flying away from him. Meeting Tyrion more than halfway, the man reached down and wrapped his hand around Tyrion's wrist. Her guest reciprocated.

"Bronn! I had no idea you were coming."

Sansa straightened, choosing to observe them before doing anything else. When Jon stepped toward them, she caught his arm, never breaking her gaze from the man named Bronn.

"The king sends me in his stead." Bronn looked over his shoulder with a carefree grin. "With help."

Podrick came into view. The men all shared a laugh.

Sansa searched the carriages for a familiar stocky, tall blond knight, finding no one else in tow. Swallowing, she threw her attention back to Bronn and Tyrion. "I figured since everyone else came north, I should to, if not to help an old friend get his bed warmed."

Tyrion tensed, turning his head back toward her, but not sending his eyes with the motion. Tyrion swallowed and chuckled. "Regardless, I'm glad to see you." Lowering his hand from Bronn, he moved to Podrick, mirroring his handshake.

Sansa cleared her throat, sparing no consideration for the Eyrie caravan. "I had no idea to expect you."

"The king sent a raven weeks ago," Bronn replied, features sliding as he looked between her and Tyrion.

Sansa joined her hands behind her, shaking her head. "Impossible." Lowering her brows to Tyrion and feeling Jon draw close, she nodded, shifting her mouth to fit a neutral smirk. Every letter addressed to Winterfell fell onto her desk directly. Where had it gone? The Dothraki were hardly covert, brutish in every way. Did they have help? "You are most welcome, My Lord." Looking to Podrick, she nodded. "Podrick."

A squire no longer, his easy expression slipped the longer he looked to her. "She sends her regards, Your Grace."

Sansa smiled. "Thank you."

"Your Grace," a familiar voice shouted from the caravan. When she snapped her eyes back to it, Robin Arryn stood, his posture straight and his features tilted and slippery.

Gulping, Sansa glanced to Jon, paying no mind to lower her voice. Robin was too far from where she stood—add on the noise of the unloading carriages and guards clamoring armor as they dismounted. "You'll not like what I do."

Jon reached for her, but she slipped beyond his grasp. "What are you going to do?"

Walking toward her cousin, Sansa alleviated her nerves with a sigh. The closer she approached, the more uneasy and awkward he appeared. The years had been kind to him. No longer a boy, he almost looked like a man—never mind he was four years younger than she.

Bowing, Robin straightened, reaching out for her hand, but pausing until he chuckled. His reach was too aggressive, but she allowed him to take her hand. "Your Grace."

Searching for Lord Royce, she found him emerging behind the Lord of the Eyrie, mouth pressed and eyes hard. Sighing, she nodded to Robin. In a single word, she laid her intentions bare for both of them to know. "Cousin." They both balked, but Sansa rushed their interaction by turning to the castle. "There is fire to warm you until I am able to join you. It would please me if you went ahead, My Lord."

Robin crumbled under her commands. Bowing, he left her to meet with the escort she arranged at the castle's entrance for him. Lord Royce had not moved. "I pray you to see reason, Your Grace," Royce whispered.

Sansa looked over her shoulder, seeing Robin moving inside. Her cool eyes lowered to Tyrion. He'd adopted a sullen look, jaw clenched and sneering at the cavalcade. When she turned back to Royce, she placidly smiled. "After you."

Lord Royce walked ahead of her. Surveying the caravan, Sansa lowered her chin and joined her hands in front of her, pausing when she reached her brother and Tyrion.

"Sansa, a word?" Jon muttered.

Winter joined her at her side, drifting to Tyrion. Sansa stared at the pup nudge his chest with his nose before sitting at Sansa's side, waiting for her instruction as usual.

Sansa met Tyrion's heavy gaze before drifting down to Winter. Reaching, she pet his fur atop his head. When she stepped, Winter got up and moved between Bronn and Tyrion before her. Sansa followed Winter's path but paused what she was at Tyrion's side. The clinking of trunks being unloaded drowned out the rest of the world. Moving her hand to his shoulder, she squeezed and brushed the area with her thumb.

At her whim, she remained there for a few seconds until she withdrew from the men toward the castle.

— — — — — — — — — — —

Spine straight against her throne, Sansa crossed her legs at the ankles and rested both hands peacefully on her lap. A gentle smirk stretched her mouth as she regarded Robin Arryn in the center of the throne room several paces away. Jon took watch on her right, hovering close and nearly suffocating her.

The Lord of the Eyrie drew quick breaths, jumped when anyone cleared their throat, and blinked so quickly, she almost didn't see it happening. Scraping his hand over his hair, he swallowed. "Your Grace, I've come to offer for…your hand."

This was a boy that much reminded her of the petrified disgraced daughter of a traitor in King's Landing forced to marry the demon monkey. That she would inspire similar unrest in someone else cut her deeper than she was prepared for.

Sansa remembered the kindness with which Tyrion had spared her heart. Righting her features, she held her eyes on him even if he wouldn't look at her. This was a boy forced to do something. Robin hadn't yet stretched his wings. He'd been babied to the point from where he might never return. "What makes your offer better than the others?"

The Lord of the Eyrie's eyes found Royce, also flashing at the room's exit. "I brought the North coin, food, and resources we have to spare."

Certainly no master of words, Sansa tempered the need to laugh. She would not be unkind to him, no matter how easy he made it. Nothing that had happened was his fault—just like what she had endured. "Lord Arryn, you humble me with your generosity. However, I regret I cannot accept you or your offering."

Robin pressed his hand to his heart and one at his mouth, breathing a sigh of relief. When he tried to speak, his rapid breathing stopped him.

"You may go if you wish, cousin."

The Lord of the Eyrie rushed out of the room. Sansa followed him until his hurried footsteps were out of range. Sansa sighed, temperately fixing her attention on Lord Royce. She understood why he wanted this union. Robin Arryn was a boy, and she was a woman who could help guide him through the cruel world. He'd told her in his letters pleading with her to accept him over the last several months. Royce wanted to help her. Knowing she couldn't accept handouts, he'd convinced himself this was the only way.

"Your Grace, I beg you reconsider." Lord Royce knelt before her, eyes meeting hers. "If he has offended you, I ask you to hear him out once more."

Sansa swallowed. "I have given my answer."

From his place on the floor, Royce's eyes flashed in Tyrion's direction, quick to settle back onto her. "I've heard rumors of a certain distraction, Your Grace. Unkind rumors."

"This queen is not distracted," Sansa evenly retorted. Scrunching her eyes, she lifted her chin. "Rumors are a dangerous thing to place faith in." Aware of the dagger at her side, Sansa separated her hands and moved them to clutch the arms of her throne. "Rumors started the war that killed my family."

"Your mother and father married for political reasons…" Lord Royce stood, stepping closer to her a few paces. A respectable distance remained between them. "They found a great love in each other."

"Robin Arryn's offer of marriage isn't what offends me, Lord Royce." Shooting to her feet, she squared her shoulders, ignoring the pinching pain there for the moment. She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at him. "I know a great deal of political marriages." Relaxing, she joined her hands behind her and eased her chin down. "That you brought a scared, lonely boy to my throne room to force him to offer for a woman he may never want cuts deeper than any offense I've endured in quite a while."

"Forgive me, Your-"

"Have you asked him what he wants, Lord Royce?"

Royce met her harsh eyes, having the decency to look sorrowful. "The Vale is the North's strongest ally. We only seek to strengthen that."

"A boy like Robin Arryn will never be a king."

Royce shook his head. "His potential has yet to be seen, Your Grace."

"My husband should have more life experience than boy raised at his mother's breast." Sansa heard quiet gasps around the throne room, but her features remained relaxed, posture strong, and chest out. "I've been a wife twice and a widow, Lord Royce." She tilted her head back, the weight of her stare unnerving the old man before her. "I've never had a choice until now," she said, her words echoing around them. "Spare him. Let him have a choice."

For a moment, Sansa believed that was the end of their conversation…until Lord Royce's mouth downturned and a sneer sharpened his eyes as he openly regarded Tyrion. "Not him…as someone who supported and served you, I beg you."

"Because you supported and served me well, I will overlook this only once," Sansa warned.

Royce's mouth pinched, his posture stiff. "Don't you find it curious that the moment the Dragon Queen's power wanes, the imp moves to a new queen?" His jaw shook and fists coiled at his sides.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Bronn's voice cut through the tension. "What was that?"

Sansa lifted a hand to her side, not moving any other part of her body and keeping her eyes on Royce. In her silence, she battled with the need to slap the man she'd come to respect a great deal and the desire to throw a fit. "Tyrion is no imp." Inhaling, Sansa evened her shoulders and swallowed. "He is a hero in the North, Lord Royce. If it weren't for his love for the people, our fates would look quite a bit different. I was never going to bend the knee…nor were you." She lowered her eyes to her hands. "No, we were bound to stand in dragon's breath."

Sansa looked over her shoulder, her hues settling on Tyrion, who stepped once closer to her. "He delivered to us a world where we're safe…we have a choice." Tyrion features twitched, adjusting to the emotion she'd inspired. Her. This man loved her. "The Queen in the North requires more than a Lord." A smiled broke her cool features. "Only a hero will do for this queen."

"Your Grace…"

Lord Royce sighed behind her, but Sansa walked to the exit, eyes on only Tyrion until Jon was near. "We have business to see to with our friends from King's Landing."

— — — — — — — — — — —

The three men from King's Landing walked quite a bit of distance behind Jon and Sansa. Winter led them to her office, trotting along as if he were, in fact, the ruler of Winterfell. The queen smiled as she kept her pace quicker than her brother's. The men behind them talked, but their voices were low, so she could not make anything substantial out. What they discussed teased her curiosity.

Rounding a corner, Jon pulled her aside, grasping her shoulders. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"

"I did warn you." Sansa pulled from his hold and started walking, but he pulled her back, pushing her into the wall. He was angrier than she'd ever witnessed. She reached behind her, clutching the opposite wrist and tightened her brows together.

Pressing his lips flat, his chin trembled. "You professed…"

Footsteps approached them, but she made no motion to continue their pursuit. "Do you know how many proposals I receive each week?" Sansa shook her head. "If I were a king, marriage wouldn't be my only value."

"This has nothing to do with your sex, Sansa!"

Sansa clenched her jaw and groaned theatrically. "What does this have to do with, then?"

"You know how I feel about him…" Jon looked at the floor, backing away from her to lean on the opposite wall.

The footsteps were louder until they stopped altogether. This was getting ridiculous. Sansa rolled her eyes. "Do you know what he's done most days since being here?" When her brother regarded her, she chuckled. "He joins the people in Winter Town, helping rebuild and managing new constructs. The bells around the town were his idea."

"I know, Sansa."

"When he thinks I'm not watching, he sits with my people…sharing drinks and wild tales about his adventures across Westeros and fighting alongside dragons, Jon." Sansa smiled and moved from the wall to the center of the hallway, not once looking at the three men around the edge of the corner. "He eases my people's hearts with his kindness, breaking the majority of his bread and meat to give it to others less fortunate."

Jon shifted his attention to the other men. "I don't like this…"

Sansa looked down the hall to her office. "I let Lysa go."

"What?" Pushing from the wall, he fastened his attention back to her. "Why?"

Sansa laughed. "Because you have a _terrible_ judgment of women, brother." Shaking her head, she sighed. "Go tend to your duties."

Jon didn't want to leave, but he obeyed. "Your Grace."

Sansa walked toward the office, eyeing Tyrion's goblet and wine bottle in the center of the round table. Sighing, she tried to steady her breath, but her body shook anyway. Reaching for the bottle, she opened it and poured a bit into the goblet he'd drunk from this morning.

"Your Grace, what was that?" Tyrion asked closely as someone closed the door.

Sansa lifted her head back and swallowed the bitter drink, brows twitching and nose cringing as she swallowed, the noise louder than anything else in the room. Her eyelids fluttered as she accustomed to the awful taste. When the wine went dry, she clumsily set the goblet on the table.

"That's my vice, Your Grace." Tyrion grabbed the bottle from her other hand. "It's much too late for you to start."

"It's awful."

"Yes, I suppose that's always been a better side effect to drown out the various reasons one drinks."

Sansa leaned back against the table, turning to the three men. "Before we discuss the matter of your missing letter," she said. Lifting her brows, she covered her mouth to hide the smile there. "Do you want to know something funny?"

Podrick and Bronn waited by the door in silence. Tyrion sighed. "IS it actually funny or are you being sarcastic?"

"Why ruin the mystery when you could just listen and find out, Tyrion?"

Tyrion shook his head. "Fair enough…what is it?"

Clutching her head, Sansa groaned. "I let Lysa go."

"And why is that?"

Sansa sagged her shoulders and let her head fall to the side. "She was too cheery for someone who lives somewhere as bleak as Winterfell."

Tyrion stepped closer to her. "That's not a very practical reason to let someone go."

"Well," Sansa said, holding a finger out to him and shaking her head. "You might think that, but what's a good reason people might be too cheery?"

"Why don't you just tell me?"

Sansa sighed. "Guess." She straightened off the table and walked to sit down in her usual chair with her usual grace.

"She's honored to be in Your Grace's company?"

Eyes rolling, Sansa sighed, sliding her features back to her trademark neutral expression. "Head to the whore house."

Tyrion's eyes widened. "No…"

"Yes."

Looking to the floor, Tyrion took his usual spot next to her. He was too quiet, and his expression was too impartial to read.

Sansa started to laugh. "She's a Lord's forbidden lover sent here for protection." When her smile faded, she sighed. "So many died during the Long Night. I can't even find quality handmaiden."

Tyrion didn't look at her, nor did he laugh. Did he think of Shae?

"Her name isn't even Lysa. She wouldn't say what it was, but she seemed relieved to be rid of her position."

"How did you discover this?" Bronn asked.

Sansa leaned back in her chair. "I saw her servicing a Wildling named Tormund, while I went to inspect the progress of the guest rooms."

The other two men claimed the other chairs at her table, slowly lowering themselves while exchanging an uncomfortable look.

"The castle is not a whore house, Your Grace." Tyrion did not meet her eye, and when the others were settled, he climbed from his chair and fled to the door, saying over his shoulder, "I must remind our northern friends. Please excuse me."

Sansa's expression broke. He misinterpreted her intention. Did he think her capable of laughing at him or his heartaches? She'd wanted him to share her misery and a laugh. If anyone could, it was him.

With his name forming on her lips, he shut the door before either of them could say another word.

* * *

**[A/N] **I will try to update later today/this weekend!

**Please review!**


	11. Eleven

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **This chapter ends in a...not so convenient spot for you. Sorry in advance!

* * *

_**Chapter 11**__**:**_

_Sansa_

* * *

The Godswood offered peace. Quiet and vacant against the snow and the Weirwood tree's crimson leaves, Sansa enjoyed the splendor of the silence.

Alone, again.

Between the span of now and again, Sansa thought of Petyr. After a while, the man had always been here at her side. It had taken the death of Ramsay to secure his unnerving, filthy presence, but he'd been her companion. She was no longer a girl. Sansa Stark hadn't trusted him—except for his love for her. He had loved her in his own way.

Greater than anything, he'd known of her mother. Sparingly, he'd spoiled her with peppered, lovely words about the woman the departed Lady of Winterfell. Through having him close to her, in a way she'd been connected with her.

Though queen, every last person she'd trusted had fled south—the Last Lannister had made sure of it. He hadn't known what it meant for her to be isolated again. The effects of war touched each person differently. A lucky few had moved on, severing their sadness and sorrow once the carnage had settled and news of the Dragon Queen's death had reached the North.

Clutching her pelts, she lowered her chin, praying to whoever could hear her. Praying, however, proved impossible with a wicked creature like Winter poking her with his cold, wet nose or tugging her pelts off her shoulders. Whining, the beast set his head in her lap. Disengaging from her quiet vigil, Sansa chuckled, petting his snout and taking his ears between the fingers of her gloves.

"You're quite the nuisance," Sansa whispered, a crooked grin stretched her lips. Lowering her head to his, the queen jiggled his ears and kissed him. "I have no hope against your charms, though."

Winter yelped, jumping back and bowing on his front paws. "I told you I wouldn't bend for even you. A queen must show some restraint. Crawling about the snow on all fours is hardly honoring to my people."

Snow flew everywhere as he pranced all around her. While the wind was at rest, it hardly slept. Each time it settled, the next minute would remind her of nature's presence with a nudged far more gentle than Winter's.

Winter raced behind the tree, earning a loud chuckle from his lady. "What is a lady to do with a man without manners?" Sansa approached the tree, hands brushing the trunk until she spotted Winter. As soon as he saw her, he yelped and raced toward her, jumping and turning.

Dancing around her in circles.

The pelt warming her shoulders was ripped away from her again, provoking a stern groan. Winter had no conscious, though, because he ran toward the castle and disposed of it, hauling back toward her like she wasn't in need of warmth.

Pointing toward her pelt, Sansa dipped her brows and shouted. "Go get it, you mangy mongrel!" Crossing her arms over her chest, she rubbed her arms. Winter disobeyed her command and turned his back to her, digging at the snow until he cast it over her clothes. "You did _not_ just do that!" Sansa laughed, bending down and collecting a small pile of snow in her cold hands. She attempted to aim, picking the spot likely to hit the beast, and cast it away from her. The balled snow landed several paces away from the unmoving creature. Clapping her hands together, she huffed. "Well, let's all praise the Gods I'm no warrior." Her aim was horrid.

From where he waited for her, Winter rushed toward her, running around her in circles—not stopping. "What do you want now?" Sansa felt something cool her forehead. Looking up, she noticed fresh snowflakes falling. A smile broke her neutral expression. A nip at her ankles distracted her admiration of the landscape. When she looked down, Winter continued his spirals around her like he hadn't done anything.

Turning, she tried to follow him, but the beast was just too quick. Before long, she was spinning aimlessly until her hands began to float up. The wind swirled around her, carrying her long hair as she leaned her head back, enjoying the cold kisses from the sky pecking her face.

A weight crushed her shoulders, though she couldn't recognize from where it had come. A hollow, expansive emotion bubbled in her chest—permitting her to giggle. Soon the weight balanced. Tears stung her eyes, but a smile cut her impassive expression.

A yelp tore the silence. Winter stole Sansa's attention. Her features hung when she discovered him on his hind legs and turning just like her by her side. "Are you dancing, Winter?" The young direwolf howled in response, and Sansa laughed. Aloud. Eventually, she resumed her mindless spinning.

The sound of her laughter was overshadowed by Winter's loud howl. Tears heated her eyes, boiling like a jagged burst of energy building in her chest. Losing control had never been something she'd afforded.

Even after the wars had ended, her life and fate hung in the balance. Dothraki wanted her dead. Someone in Winterfell was betraying her. Letters got stolen. Nothing had changed.

Winter continued howling like a mad wolf. Sansa didn't know where to stroke of bravery originated in her, but she leaned her head back and bellowed from the depths of her chest, continuing her spinning until her legs gave out. Falling to the snow, Sansa heaved, her shouting died down.

Snow crunched under rushing footsteps, the sound creeping closer. Sansa remained where she was, not the least bit phased by the disturbance. Tilting her head back, she stuck out her tongue, shivering each time a snowflake landed on her hot tongue.

Winter collapsed on the ground behind her. Falling back onto the thick layer of snow, Sansa laughed, turning her head and seeing the wolf pup panting. They each faced each other but lazily stretched out in opposite directions. Closing her eyes, she felt her chest expand and collapse in a way she had never experienced prior. The wind eased but caressed her cold cheek before leaving her to cope with the solace of her own company.

Winter licked her ear, reminding her of his troublesome presence. The Gods hadn't abandoned her yet.

"Your Grace!" Podrick hollered. More pairs of footsteps followed behind him.

Hearing him withdraw his sword, she laughed and shook her head, her shoulders rattling against the ground. Though over three moons had passed from her attack, the pain was still her shadow. Swallowing, she banished the pain away.

When Winter whined, Sansa opened her eyes, not once looking from the sky. Her secrets were safe with it.

"Sansa!" Tyrion shouted, crashing her moment of freedom with his bare hands.

Blinking once, her smile wiped from her face and her laughter died. Pressing her lips together, she inhaled and sat up, whistling for Winter to follow her lead. Thankfully the beast obeyed. Regarding Podrick, she said, "I was only having a bit of fun." Walking through the three men present, she kept her eyes on the pelt still on the ground toward the castle. Retrieving it, she draped it over her arm, and Winter escorted her back.

— — — — — — — — — — —

_Tyrion_

— — — — — — — — — — —

More than a week and a half later, Sansa would still not speak to him. It hadn't helped that he'd avoided her like she could summon a death plague for a few days. For all his life, he'd been the clever one. Whores, knowledge, and wine had all been a part in the armor he'd carefully crafted every time someone used his hideous stature against him.

Sansa had only been trying to share her misery with him—trying to open up around others, people whom he'd considered his friends. He hadn't meant to walk out on her, but the stark reminder of his previous loves had poisoned her clear thoughts anchoring and feeding off of the queen. Shae had asked him how many whores he'd been with when he'd detached himself from her. The truth was…he had no idea or inventory.

No one held a candle in the race to find who hated Tyrion Lannister the most. He would always hold that title. His failures and past mistakes in love weren't Sansa's fault, yet it was so easy to blame her for the sins of others. Now she wouldn't even look at him.

Everything they'd built…he'd shattered without anyone's interference. The weight her affection had suffocated him that day. Though Robin Arryn was safe in the Vale, all of Winterfell and the Six Kingdoms would know of her esteem of the Last Lannister. Sansa hadn't spared an ounce in the name of secrecy.

No one had so publically claimed him. In the throne room, he'd allowed his emotions to sweep him away, intoxicated by the innocence and quiet power she'd acquired over the years. But she didn't ask him about what he wanted. Rumors were one thing…but to openly broadcast their feelings—it was the one love he'd never known. No woman had ever been allowed or willingly wanted to declare him in public. While used to attention, Tyrion had no idea what to do with a woman like Sansa.

Tyrion couldn't predict her, and that terrified him. With whores, there was a transaction, an exchange of rules and coin. There were boundaries. When things with Shae had been called to end, Tyrion had quietly been preparing for their love's end, knowing he could never leave the prison of his father's influence. A love with Sansa had no clear ending. And no way out.

He hadn't meant to tell her of his love. Love often enslaved him, burning his mind until it was boiled to a pulp. He was a fool in love. There was nothing about loving Sansa that was easy.

There were some days where he would remember all his family had done to her. Some days, he even packed his things, prepared to spare her from his love. Tyrion never left, though. He hadn't visited the whorehouse since walking out on her in her office, either.

Where there was a part of him that wanted to run from Sansa, a profound, lost piece of him pulled the other parts drifting away toward it. Sansa had thoroughly charted the very core of who he was…and brought back the light.

Tyrion deserved none of it, but she'd redefined the meaning of love for him. And he loved her. While it seemed to empower her, his love crippled his mind. It made everything unknown and new. For someone who had to know things, it was almost a private hell.

More than anything, he wished he could silence his mind. The last of his four-moon sentence was drawing to its close in a matter of weeks. He'd wasted so much time.

Watching her from afar was as good as she'd offer him. High up on the walls of the castle, he stood on a stool, peering down at her near the Weirwood tree. She worked with Winter, training him to perfect what appeared to be a dance.

Someone approached him in his lonely vigil, but he didn't move to see who it was. Whoever it was cleared his throat, only giving away his identity when he spoke. "She practices with her eyes closed." Jon sighed.

Tyrion kept his eyes set on Sansa, but laughed hopelessly. "I wonder where she goes when she closes them…"

"It used to be back to Ramsay," Jon absently replied, adjusting his hand on the stone ledge before them.

Tyrion tightened his fists until they shook. What he would do if he could raise the dead for a day. Ramsay would know pain he didn't know existed. As much good as Sansa proclaimed him to be, there was a part of him that heeded his inner lion, bright and burning and raging.

"I thought there would be a day I could say to you that I'm happy it's you," Jon added in their shared silence.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "And the consensus?"

"It changes by the day." Jon leaned against the stone lining the level. "You will never deserve her."

"And there's not a soul worthy of her."

"Is that how you justify all this?"

Tyrion's mouth trembled, eyes narrowing. "I don't know what to do with it."

"You think this is the correct course?"

Scratching his beard, Tyrion sighed. "My mind has skewed in the matters of the heart." He relaxed his fists. "I've never known more madness than when I succumbed to the inevitability of my love for Sansa."

"Whomever she chooses, the man has to know what it means to be with her."

Tyrion laughed. "Ah, yes…the future King in the North. I used to think about who might that be." Leaning on his elbows, Tyrion spared Jon a glance. "Not like I dreamed of dragons, but quite a similar dread nowadays."

"There's much she will never tell me." Jon sighed, rubbing his face. "Of King's Landing, Petyr Baelish, and…Ramsay." Covering his mouth, Tyrion watched Jon watching Sansa until the Master of War turned to him. "When we first approached the idea of Dragonstone, Sansa only had praise for you."

"I suppose I can be decent when it suits me…"

Jon rested a hand on Tyrion's shoulder. Sharing a look, both swallowed in unison. "What you did for House Stark by protecting my queen in King's Landing…that's a debt we can never hope to repay."

"Don't say that…" Tyrion looked at his busy hands. "She did end up with Ramsay because our marriage was never consummated."

"Every man she's known, including me, has failed her in some way, Tyrion." Jon brushed his hair back. "What little she told me about what happened down in the crypts…whatever happened between you both affected her in a way no other man could."

"It terrifies me to think about how easy it would be to give my life for her," Tyrion replied. "Even when we were married. Protecting her has always been easy for even a dwarf who values his life above almost everything."

"You love her…but do you intend on offering for her?"

"It would be a complicated union—on account I'm supposed to be fulfilling a life sentence as Hand of the King." Tyrion rubbed his face, sighing. "Every Lannister to have warmed their ass on a throne has been disastrous for the world."

"I can't believe I'm going to say this," Jon said, his hands muffling the words a bit. Straightening, the bastard squeezed Tyrion's shoulder. "…if she means to accept you, you have my reluctant blessing."

"What was that?"

Jon started walking away. "I will never say it again." Turning, he raised his sword from its hilt, the blade glistening in the daylight. "If you ever betray or hurt her, I will kill you, Tyrion."

A smile broke Tyrion's stern expression.

"Tyrion?"

"More threats?"

Jon held his gaze. "Don't bed her until your wedding night. She's endured too much to be treated any less than a queen."

"What if I'm a terrible choice?"

From where he stood, Jon looked to Sansa. In the distance, her laughter drifted around them. Planting a hard stare on him, Jon sighed. "When Sansa dances alone, she looks down. Not up." Swallowing, he chuckled. "Much as I might not like it, but I think she sees you when they close now."

— — — — — — — — — — —

The queen had fled to Winter Town from the Godswood. Daylight hung low on the horizon, and the torches already blazed, readied for the coming night. The basic preparations for an attack had been perfectly implemented by those who'd refused the trade caravan to safety. The people of Winterfell had a resilient spirit, nearly seventy percent had chosen to stay—resolved that if the queen could stay, it must be safe for her people.

Most of those who'd fled were elderly, expecting mothers, and small children, though many families still remained.

The busied roads crowded with people moving to and fro about their daily routines and errands. Tyrion matched Bronn's slow pace, eyes perusing the people towering over him.

"We'll find your queen."

With a sigh, Tyrion glared up at his old friend, quick to return to his quiet search. "She's not my queen."

"Well, not yet." Bronn adjusted his pants as they walked. "I can't picture you living in this dead man's wastelands."

"As of right this moment, I don't live here." Heart pounding against his chest, Tyrion evened his quick breaths by shaping his mouth in a circle and exhaling, shaking his heads and bringing them to his mouth. "I'm only a guest."

Bronn laughed, scratching the back of his head and slapping Tyrion's shoulder. "Don't sound so disappointed."

Tyrion's attempts at steering the conversation away from him and Sansa weren't working. He needed a new tactic, but his mind was conveniently blank. "It's not as if it doesn't have its perks."

"I'll give you the perky nipples, but what else is here?"

Tyrion huffed, dropping his shoulders until the air left his lungs. Crossing his hands at his stomach, he bit the inside of his mouth and squirmed with his gloved fingers. "Bronn."

"You sure have the worst luck in matters of the heart. I don't know why I'm so shocked to see you move from loving whores to queens." Bronn scratched his belly. "Always wanting women you can't have."

"Everyone wants things they can't have."

"Yes," Bronn admitted, laughing as he turned around to inspect a woman walking past them. "Hello…" The lady turned back, giggling as she rushed behind them. "…but your appetite will always be much bigger."

"Look on the bright side," Tyrion said, lifting his brows and gestured to himself. "At least something about me is bigger." Adjusting his top, Tyrion sent his shoulders back and puffed his chest out.

"You're not serious about all this, are you?" Bronn rubbed the back of his head and sighed. "You'll be a king, Tyrion."

"Perhaps there's an alternative."

Bronn chuckled, covering his mouth with a hand when Tyrion scowled up at him. "You don't actually want any of this."

Tyrion paused, opening his mouth and tilting his head to his friend. "Bronn, this is different. It's not like it was with Tysha or Shae…or Daenerys."

Examining the area, Bronn checked behind him and saw an alleyway to step into. Grateful for some privacy, Tyrion brushed his shoulders of snowflakes. "I want to understand, Tyrion. If there's a man more worthy of finding some happiness after all this, I can't think of a one."

"I know what I look like. I've always been the clever one, the ugly little imp who killed his mother in birth—a lover of whores and, most importantly, his own life."

"Don't beat yourself up."

Tyrion looked down, eyes frantically searching the snow and the stone walls for an explanation. "Sansa makes me feel like the pretty one, a man who might be capable of everything she believes me to be." Falling back against the wall for support, he lowered to the cold snow. "When together, she's not a queen. I'm not the Last Lannister. There are no walls between us, Bronn. Sansa _wants_ to be around me as much as I need to be around her. I believe she loves me as equally as I've come to love her."

"You believe she loves you? She hasn't told you yet?"

Tyrion searched the throng of people passing their alley, sighing. "Her people now believe it, and I've felt the power of her affections whilst I've been here."

"I still can't believe she did that. What a way to be welcomed North."

"Sansa Stark never ceases to surprise me."

Bronn picked at his teeth until he shook his head. "I just don't want to see you get hurt. It's always the pretty ones."

In the distance, Tyrion saw Winter's tail. Casting his eyes up, he regarded his lady. Sansa wore her usual dark attire, hair mostly unbraided and loose—save the two thin braids stretching and meeting at the back to keep hair from her eyes. "My friend, it always seems to be I who does the hurting."

Unwilling to be apart from her any longer, he stood up and kept his eyes on her. The closer he got, the more the smaller details came into focus. The striking, tight jawline that made his mind wild…her soft, icy eyes that shifted between white and blue at all times…the slight bend of her straight mouth that seemed to melt the closer he was to her. He loved this woman.

Entranced, Tyrion slowed his steps within the last few paces. Sansa discovered him, immediately tensing and eyes scurrying about searching for an exit. He barely heard him say her name. When she turned, he reached for her hand, immobilizing her. When she turned back toward him, he saw tears glossing her pretty eyes—mouth hanging.

The moment shattered when she looked down at her feet and the town bells rang into focus. Tyrion helplessly watched her be pulled from behind to the ground. As she felt around the snow for something to grasp and he extended his hand to her, she was already whisked away from him in the opposite direction of the castle.

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**[A/N] **I can't tell if the site has messed up, but I hope you aren't losing interest in this story! I love hearing your feedback!

**Please review!**


	12. Twelve

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **I'm not sure how long this story will be, but I know it's far from over! I'm really pleased to be writing this for all those like me who desperately needed this after the show's end.

* * *

_**Chapter 11**__**:**_

_Sansa_

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The rope at her ankle was so tight. Sansa thought it would amputate her foot. Somehow, she'd rolled around onto her back and barely missed a rock protruding from the snow. The Dothraki man howled louder the farther from the castle he dragged her. The pelts she word had flown off her shoulders when she'd first been brought to the ground. The bulky, bulging mongrel rode on his horse to where several other Dothraki were.

Tightening her core, Sansa mustered every shred of strength the gods had given her, haphazardly waving the Valyrian steel dagger. In her efforts, the edge of the blade sliced the top of her boot open, barely grazing her skin. Crying out, Sansa sucked in air through her teeth. If she couldn't reach the rope, she needed a new plan.

Curling her shoulders and lifting her head forward, she yelped. Turning her head, she saw a trail of blood. Either her old wounds reopened, or the gravel along the path and fist-sized rocks had scraped her skin. Either way, the snow gnawed through the layers of clothing until the cold burned her skin.

A white blur launched at her ankle until she recognized Ghost, who broke the rope and darted toward the horse, snapping its hind leg and rushed back to her. Sansa struggled to get up, but Ghost neared her, allowing her to use his weight to stand. Her foot was numb, needles prickling. She wouldn't be able to walk. Taking his fur between her gloved fingers, she ungracefully mounted the direwolf. She was too big for his size, but he might be able to get some distance between the bull charging after them.

A stampede of Dothraki chanted, all storming toward Ghost. The direwolf ran from side to side, dodging a flurry of arrows with expert precision—some ablaze with flame, which sizzled and hissed against the snow. Their speed was too slow. The sounds of rushing horses drew too close for comfort, so Sansa leaned to her right, eyeing a side road through Winter Town.

The edge of town was in sight until Ghost whined and fell down on top of her good leg. Wailing, Sansa turned, seeing Ghost inspecting an arrow in his shoulder. Sansa reached for it and broke off the bulk of the arrow. The direwolf no longer seemed concerned about his wound because he snapped back to his feet and charged toward an incoming Dothraki on horseback.

Sansa didn't have the stomach to see how close he'd come, but a small reprieve eased her rattling heart when the horse whimpered in pain and came crashing through the snow. Limping toward a building, she felt blood flow down her ankle and flood her boot. Swallowing, she nearly shrieked when a large man rounded the corner and grabbed her.

"My Lady Queen!" Tormund shouted. Hauling her over his shoulder, he screamed, "Got her!" Twisting between the shops and houses, he worked his way toward the castle gates until he cursed and took a different turn. With his back to where he'd faced, Sansa came face to face with a Dothraki man. She screamed when his blade almost sliced open her throat. With Tormund's staggering strength, though, he'd pulled her to safety. The Dothraki warrior pursued them until Podrick cut off his head. A flash of her father's decapitation stiffened her, but Sansa had no time for hysterics.

The Wildling threw her down, but she slipped on the blood filling her boot. Arms caught her, cradling her bridal style and carrying her away from Podrick and Tormund, who battled against the outlandish creatures stalking her.

Looking at who had her, she shivered and saw Bronn. He hollered. "Got her!" Sansa clutched her knife and closed her eyes, fastening her arms around his neck. In the dark, she felt Bronn weave in and out of the alleyways until he threw her out of his arms. Sansa whimpered when another man caught her, the pain in her back shocking her when he adjusted his arms over the area.

Opening her eyes, she saw another Wildling had control of her safety. "Got her!" The man whose named escaped her rounded a corner and stopped. When Sansa looked to see what for, she wailed when she saw an arrow pierce his eye from behind. The man collapsed to his knees and looked at her before the life drained from his eyes.

Sansa's arms were too loose to hold her body up, trying to escape from the dead man's tense hold on her. Multiple sets of footsteps stalked closer to her. Crawling, Sansa started to cry.

Someone reached for her elbow. Whipping her head to the side, she saw Davon. He held his hand out to her, and screamed, "This way!" Heart pounding and ears ringing, Sansa wasn't sure where her burst of energy came from, but she snapped out of her panic long enough to fight to stand on her feet. "I've got her!"

Sansa slowly stumbled behind him. Davon challenged her pace a bit by dragging her feet slightly on the snow. Somehow he'd lost the Dothraki on her tail and guided her into a room off the side of the whorehouse. Navigating through a network of tall wooden shelves, Davon led her to a large barrel. "You've got to climb! They won't find you in here!"

He reached down and bent her knee, but she cried out. "I can't!"

"You must!"

The gods must have pitied her. It took her much longer than they could afford, but eventually, Sansa jumped down into the large barrel, wincing at the impact and arching her back as the liquid stung her wounds. The wine moved each time she adjusted herself. Davon loudly whispered, "Don't make a sound!" Just as quickly as he'd come beside her, she heard a nearby door open and shut quietly.

Trembling, alone, and afraid, Sansa sobbed silently. Wine drenched her whole body. She didn't know for how long she waited in that barrel of wine, but her nerves had almost settled when someone slammed the storeroom door open. Voices chanting a language she did not understand, she yelped unconsciously, immediately knowing her mistake. Closing her eyes, Sansa shoved her hand over her mouth, muffling her quaking, out of control breathing.

Tears stinging her eyes, Sansa's lip trembled the closer the man drew to her. Then, the footsteps were gone. Several seconds passed until she was sure a minute had endured. Shoulders sagging down, she sighed quietly.

The barrel toppled over, sending Sansa sliding until her head banged against the stone wall. Body convulsing, she bawled, feeling the knife still in her hand. Sansa slipped the dagger into her sleeve. Darting her eyes everywhere, she worked against her shuddering body and tried to rationalize a strategy. All she needed was an opening.

The man hauled him against her, paying no mind to her hands, and slapped her with the back of his hand. The world crashed around her, and her vision blurred. Between coping with the pain and delusion, Sansa thought she heard him brokenly say, "I…fuck you….and kill you…before your people."

"No…" The world was topsy-turvy, spinning and refracting when he lifted her feet off the ground. Head light, she slipped in and out until she vaguely saw she was inside the castle walls.

The Dothraki set her feet back on the snow and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her head back to press a blade against her throat.

Sansa looked to the sky, trying her best to survey all she could by dropping her eyes; however, the angle didn't offer her much.

"Let her go!" Tyrion shouted from somewhere close in front of her. Fidgeting with the knife in her hand in her sleeve, she heard Tyrion sputtering a few words in the Dothraki language.

Sansa closed her eyes and breathed, exhaling peacefully. The frigid temperature nipped her body. Her shivers were more violent now that she was mostly wet. Swallowing, Sansa slowly guided the dagger out of her sleeve and rotated her wrist to position the dagger where she thought best. While the savage man distracted himself with bickering with Tyrion, Sansa opened her eyes, pleading with the gods to spare her their mercy and protection.

Lip trembling, Sansa steadied her right hand, lifting her arm as much as she could and shoving the dagger back into the Dothraki warrior. He released her hair. Sansa stood on her own, shoving his arms away from her and slightly turning to see where she'd struck him. A satisfied grin darkened her features. Together, they collapsed to the ground—somewhat facing each other. The large man shook uncontrollably. A sword passed her left shoulder and was shoved into the savage's heart. The man glared at her as she dropped her hues to the dagger, plunging right in his manhood. The world almost slipped away from her, but she fought for a few more seconds before she was taken. Gripping the dagger, she used her remaining strength to pull it out of him.

"Go fuck…yourself."

When she fell back, small arms caught her, hands warming her face. Then darkness claimed the light.

— — — — — — — — — — —

Honeyed, warm words flowed through the blackness like a soft stream of light. The voice was calm, gentle. Sansa reached out toward the stream, feeling the warmth in a world gone cold. The stream curled around her hand. When she stood, she felt it pull at her, so she followed it until the light was unbearable.

Eyes twitching, Sansa heard the clicks of a fire burning nearby. Instead of standing, she laid on something soft and comfortable. Something nudged her feet. Exhaling, she stretched her neck to the side, eyes finally able to open.

Tyrion already stared at her. "Welcome back."

Sansa flashed her eyes down at her hand, which he held and stroked with one of his. Shifting her eyes back on him, she noticed he had a book in his lap. "You were reading to me."

"Only to keep from losing my mind." Tyrion's eyes watered. "I thought I'd lose you, Sansa."

Shaking her head, she struggled, managing to drag his hand to her pillow, kissing his fingers gently. "How long was I out this time?"

"It's been four days," the man tossed the book to the floor and slid in her bed until his head hovered over hers. Reaching in her hair, he brushed the side of her face and curled a lock of her hair around his finger. "You lost a lot of blood."

"I just won't die, will I?" Sansa softly chuckled.

He silenced her with his lips. The kiss was brief, but he lowered his head to hers. "I wish you would stop talking about your life like losing it would be inconsequential."

Sansa brushed under his eyes and nodded. "I'll find a way to make you laugh yet."

Tyrion slipped his hand under her neck, his movement slow. Searching her eyes, he shook his head. "I shouldn't have walked out on you."

"I didn't realize it would be a sore subject, Tyrion."

"It's not, Sansa," Tyrion pressed his mouth to hers. Nudging her nose with his, he played with her hair and lay down beside her. "In all my years, I've admittedly known many women—mostly whores. I've loved three women before you—all ended disastrously. I've married twice—both times my heart ended up broken." He pressed a kiss against her again. "One day, you'll know everything about Tysha, my first wife. And Shae…I loved her when we were forced to marry." When Sansa lowered her gaze, he caught her by her chin, lifting it until she looked at him again. "We will spend every last second of the last few weeks I have here together…"

Sansa's chest got heavy. Tears collected in her eyes. "Tyrion, don't leave me."

Tyrion brought his brows together and smiled. "I've tried to." Stroking her face, he dragged his mouth against hers. She moaned, slightly moving her mouth ajar. He touched his tongue against her, and she opened. Massaging her tongue, Tyrion groaned, deepening the kiss until she winced. Her back had arched without her realizing. He retreated from her, whispering his apologies. Touching her bottom lip, he dragged his index finger back and forth. "I must go back to King's Landing for a very brief trip."

Sansa adjusted, accustoming to the pinches at her back. Stroking his beard, her expression slackened, eyes wet and dull. "I don't want to part from you." Picking at the ends of his beard hairs, she lightly pulled his hair and reached for his jaw, thumb stroking his ear right as she shook her head and searched his eyes. "Brief? What do you mean?"

"The Dothraki invaded Winterfell. They killed twelve of your people and Wildlings. They're not honoring their end of our agreement." Tyrion moved his head to the space between her shoulder and head, taking her lobe in his mouth. She felt him swallow against her, and his guttural moan shook her chest. "Sansa, I'm going back to King's Landing with Bronn and Podrick." She clutched at his shirt possessively, like her hold would keep her there with her forever. He rested his hand on top of hers and brought it to his heart. "I'm resigning as Bran's Hand. I will take the first ship out to come back to you."

Sansa gulped, gasping when his hand brushed her shivering ribcage underneath her breast. A blush warmed her cheeks. "And then?"

Repositioning himself over her, Tyrion brushed her face. "Sansa, my life is yours," he said, sealing the vow with a chaste kiss. He let go of her hand to set his hand above her heart. "My heart is yours…for evermore," he whispered down at her. His thumb brushed against the top of her breast, provoking a light shudder up and down her spine, the pain not bothering her now. "I would take your hand if you will accept my hand in marriage."

Sansa stared up at him in wonder. Tears released from her eyes. Fanning her fingers through his unkempt hair, she twitched her brows together and lifted herself up until her mouth met his, the kiss quickly broke due to her bobbing head. "Yes," Sansa whispered. He guided her back down to her bed and met her smile with his own. "I will."

Tyrion almost broke down, but he caught himself before he was lost. His eyes scurried all over her face until he planted his gaze in hers. "I've only ever dreamt of happiness like this. Until you."

Something in her eyes shifted. He must have seen it, too. Slipping her hand to his hip, she swallowed and gripped his shirt, but he caught her hand and moved back away from her. A blush colored her skin, but she explored the expanse of emotions he awakened within her, breaking through the carefully crafted walls she'd personally built after her disastrous second marriage. She tugged down on him, but he held his position away from her until parted her lips. "I just want to feel you, Tyrion."

"That's a bad idea."

Sansa swallowed. "I've never wanted a man like this."

"Sansa…" Tyrion lowered his head to hers, capturing her mouth and suffering through a pained moan. In his efforts, he lowered his body to her. "You shouldn't say things like that." He was hard, ready to break with her if he'd only take her. "Not to me. Not yet."

"When, Tyrion?" Groaning, Sansa couldn't ignore the discomfort across her body anymore. Something was always in her way with him. "I want to have you." She let go of his shirt and pressed one finger to his stomach, slowly dragging it until she tapped his chin through his beard, earning a chaste kiss from him. "I want to know you."

Groaning against her lips, Tyrion pulled back, panting and shivering with her attention. Taking her hand from his chin, he moved it until he sealed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. "And have me you shall."

Sansa followed him as he lowered to the bed to her side and pressed her head against him. "When?" she whispered.

"When you heal…when we are husband and wife." He stroked her hair absently. "After I return to you." Tyrion smiled. "Sansa?"

Finding his hand, Sansa brushed hair out of his face. "Yes?"

"At least in the beginning, I want only a Stark to rule the North." Tyrion reached over, setting his hand on her stomach. "As unconventional as it may be, I will make a better Hand than a king."

Sansa smiled. "A Hand…a king? I've only wanted you."

Tyrion shook his head, his chest caving in as he exhaled. "I wasn't prepared for you, Sansa." Brushing her lips, Tyrion nibbled on her bottom lip and pulled away. "I never thought I'd find you."

"We found each other, Tyrion."

* * *

**[A/N] **No update will happen tomorrow, but I will try and get a chapter or two out on Monday!

**Please review!**


	13. Thirteen

_**The Edge of War's End**_

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **Long time, friends! I apologize for the extended wait for this update. I'd actually written it a few days ago only to have it deleted and missing from my computer. I took a few days off to rewrite it, but I have to say, I prefer this version! Enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter 13**__**:**_

_Tyrion_

* * *

Something wet and cold poked at Tyrion's cheek. Groaning, the man rolled over in his bed and cast his hand at the mysterious nuisance. Hearing the sounds of sniffing, the pelt he'd snuggled under suddenly grew legs and waltzed down his body—off the bed. Body twitching, Tyrion reached around, swearing in every language he could remember he knew.

A shiver quaked across his body as his brows and mouth flattened. Grumbling, Tyrion sat up, reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed. Rubbing at his eyes, he sighed and dragged his hands over his face until the world slowly came into focus. Winter sat at the foot of the bed—whining and dancing on his paws backward toward the open door.

"What?" Tyrion sighed and crawled out of his bed, yawning as he searched for the boot just underneath his bed. Wiggling the blasted thing on, he eased his overcoat on and reached for his pelt. Looking back at Winter, the growing direwolf lay on the stone floor, head between his front paws and whining. "What is the matter with you?"

Winter sprang up and nuzzled his snout between the partially closed door, which creaked as it moved to the wall. Tyrion sighed and decided to follow, quickly gauging the general direction in which Winter led him. Heart beating faster, he rushed until he the corner leading to Sansa's room.

Slowing his steps, he approached the cracked door. Mouth tight and eyes twitching, he stretched his hands and fisted them at his sides. Quiet sobs echoed out of the queen's room until they were almost a whisper. Peering from the dark hallway through the thin opening, Tyrion swallowed and sighed, the noise drowned out by a stray moan Sansa failed to contain. Winter nudged his ankle forward, but Tyrion held out his hand, and the direwolf obeyed.

Tyrion watched as Sansa wiped her eyes and shake her head. "Stupid, stupid girl…" she seethed. She looked where her large mirror would be in the room, fighting another sob.

Tyrion eased the door open, a small creak making her jump and clutch the fabric falling from her shoulders. "Sansa?"

"Please leave!"

Sighing, Tyrion entered the room, Winter following at his heels. "I insist you tell me what's wrong."

The robe gathered in her palms spilled out between her shaking fingers. As she blew the breath from her lungs, she raised her chin, peering down her nose at him. "I asked you to leave."

Shifting his head to the side as his brows flattened, he exhaled a shaky breath. "You're not my queen yet, Sansa."

"You're in the room of a highborn lady, let alone a queen." Slowly, she stood to her feet, adjusting the front of her robe. As the fabric dangled and settled, he caught a glimpse of her lithe, long, and pale legs.

The sight made his mouth water and lips tingle. Stretching his hands at his sides, he shook his head. "Stop talking to me like that, Sansa. Don't be like-"

Sansa laughed, blocking the large mirror's lower corner from his view. Joining her hands at her stomach, she picked at her nails. "Like who?" she whispered.

"I will not dignify that with a response." Searching the floor for answers, Tyrion blocked the moisture pooling at his eyes. "I implore you to tell me what the fuck this is."

"You were going to say Daenerys Stormborn, the Dragon Queen." Sansa ignored the tears streaming down her face in thick, gleaming lines that met at her chin. "You wanted her…she was beautiful."

Tyrion rushed to her and grabbed both of her hands, nostrils flaring wildly and breathing noisily. Gritting his teeth together, he pressed his lips flat until they pinched from the pressure. "What do you want?"

"You wanted _her_."

"Sansa?" Tyrion's voice broke, body trembling.

The queen dropped to her knees and looked at him. "You shouldn't want me." Sansa flashed her eyes at the mirror. "I'm still a petulant, spoiled little girl."

Tyrion glared at the mirror, scrutinizing the large inflicted, cracked corner. Several fractures stretched to halfway up. Swallowing, he didn't look back at her. "I can't argue otherwise right now…not unless you tell me exactly what's happened."

"I can't tell you, Tyrion…"

"Sansa…" Fisting his hand, Tyrion hung his mouth open for several seconds until the storm quelled within him. His chest cooled, relaxing the more deep breaths he took. Shifting his gaze in the mirror, he met her haunting, pale blue eyes. "I love you. You can tell me anything."

"If I tell you this, you'll hate me as I hate myself."

Chin trembling, Tyrion turned his head back until he faced her. His eyes twitched uncontrollably. Shaking his head, he reached for the top of her joined hands in his palm, rubbing her skin. Walking toward her, he bent down and kissed the flesh there. Straightening his spine, Tyrion sighed. "Do you trust me, Sansa?" His voice was tender and warm, softening the heavy breaths he took.

Sansa turned her head to the side, toward her bed. "I cannot lose you, too," she whispered. "I wouldn't survive you."

"That's not an answer, Sansa."

The room flooded with silence, only the sounds of Winter's whimpering and whines breaking it. The wind beyond the windows howled outside. Her breathing slowed as the pregnant pause waned. Tension in her muscles eased as she cleared her throat. Slowly, she observed him, searching his eyes for something he could not name. Sansa grimaced, biting her lip and taking a deep, pained breath. "I trust you," she said, voice cracking.

Tyrion stepped closer, moving a hand to her smooth cheek. Softly laughing as a smile brightened his features, he leaned in, brushing his lips to hers. He pulled away and rested his head against hers. "Let me help you, Sansa."

"What if you don't like what I will say? What if you leave?"

Crashing his mouth against hers, Tyrion moaned, rocking against her as he shifted his body for the best angle. Their mouths opened for each other, and both eagerly took what was offered. When she tentatively brushed his tongue with hers, he went wild, eyes half-closing and fluttering as he pulled her to him and angled her head back. When his cock stirred, Tyrion pulled back and held her steady as they fought for breath.

He didn't take his eyes off hers. Fingers stroking her face, Tyrion dragged his lips over her face, pressing gentle kisses into her skin wherever he could. "Sansa, apart from my return to King's Landing, you shall never be without me another day in your life unless you command it to be so. You have my love, my mind, my life."

Sansa kissed him. When they pulled apart, he leaned in and took her bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling until she shuddered. "Soon, you will be my wife because we have found each other—chosen each other!" Stroking her jawline, Tyrion nipped at her mouth again. "If you believe I have the strength to leave you after I've had this mouth against mine or felt your breasts against my chest…you're sorely mistaken."

The fire illuminated her bright red hair and warmed her cool colored eyes. The motion of the flickering flames distorted her features, blending the innocence embedded in her expression with the vengeance of desire that mirrored his own. They were only a breath apart. As they struggled to breathe, their chests bumped into each other.

Guiding her head back, Tyrion bent until his lips sealed on her naked neck. "What inspired this anguish?" he whispered.

Pulling back, he watched Sansa struggle—with what he did not know. Her brows dipped and her mouth opened. Finally, she blinked and fought against the tears dampening her eyes. "Since the bear attack, I haven't seen my back." She lowered her hues, brushing her hair back behind the curve of her ear. "I haven't had the strength to look."

Tyrion resisted the urge to look at the mirror again. It all made sense. "Until tonight."

"Yes," she whispered, shivering under his touch. "Beauty is a fickle and fleeting thing to hold onto. It's likely the vainest thing to admire."

"Sansa…"

"I was ignorant."

"You're allowed to feel this way," Tyrion countered. Rubbing his thumb along her lower lip, he sighed when she looked at him again. "The way that you are is exactly how you're meant to be. You're broken and more beautiful than you could ever be without the scars—old and new. They mean you survived." A smile lifted at the corner of her mouth. "You get used to it."

Sansa lifted her hand, elegantly brushing his face with the back of her index finger. "You're a very wise, old man." Kissing his forehead, she looked down at his hand. Flipping it over, she teased his palm with the light brush of her fingertips. Finally, she brought it to her lips, pressing several pecks against the center of his hand. "I wish I'd have seen beyond my fear when we were married in King's Landing. We could have figured this out."

Tyrion shook his head. "Everything happened as it had to." Tyrion brushed his fingers against her lips with his free hand. Her sharp breath warmed his skin. "But I'd like to believe we'd have grown to love each other."

Sansa's eyes sharpened. "Even though you loved Shae?"

Tyrion tensed but remained where he was. Exhaling, he twitched his brows together. "I think my duty to you was more powerful than my love for her. Maybe I'd have broken it off."

"You'd planned to make her your mistress in secret—have children with you," Sansa said. "Didn't you?"

"The only life I want to think about is the one I spend with you."

"Sometimes," Sansa whispered, "I have to imagine the world in what-ifs to be with my family." She rested her hand on his thigh. "In order to revisit the moment where my mother braided my hair or the seconds preceding father's execution…I think what I could have done differently."

"You were just a child, Sansa." Her smile distracted him.

"Being older doesn't make things any easier, Tyrion."

"No…" Swallowing, Tyrion slammed his eyes closed when she pressed her hand against his hard bulge. "Sansa-"

"I'm not going to push you, Tyrion. I want to know you on our wedding night, too." Her touch was fleeting, hesitant, and shaky. Groaning, his pores oozed thick beads of hot sweat on his forehead and chest. "I want to tell you something I only ever told Theon. Can I tell you?"

When he opened his eyes, she'd pulled her hand away. A blush colored her pale skin. "Y-yes."

"Ramsay took me from behind…rarely, other positions. After he had his way with me, my body was black and blue and bloody from his hands…" Sansa's face was deadpan, lifeless. "Each day he locked me in my room, and each night he came to me to do it all over again. It only needed to happen once, though. I couldn't comfortably sit, breathe, or stand because I felt him inside me pulling me apart—even when he was away."

Tyrion reached for her and knelt down before her, looking away from her. "I sh…" he chocked, covering his mouth while he continued, "You were my wife! I should have been there!"

"Shh…" Sansa brushed a bit of hair from his face. "Neither of us could have done anything differently." Placing a kiss on his cheek, she pulled away and lifted his chin, shaking her head with a small smile. "I want you to know all of me, Tyrion. I tell you this not to blame you, but to show you my trust. You've repaired a part of me I never thought I'd know again." She lowered her mouth to his, lingering a bit before breaking away. "Only a man whom I trust so deeply could awaken the color back in the gray world I've lived in for so long—and stir up emotions I've never experienced."

Struggling to find the perfect words for such a heartfelt, vulnerable moment, Tyrion sighed. "I want you to know all of me, too."

"You're not ready, though." Sansa squeezed his hand. "I know. It's alright."

"I wish I could give you more…"

Sansa laced her fingers in his, scrutinizing the differences with explicit interest. She leaned down, brushing her lips on the back of his hand. "You've given me more than I know how to handle, Tyrion."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, tilting his head a bit as he regarded her with a quirked brow. "Oh? How so?"

"I think you know."

"Of course I do, but I want to hear you say something scandalous," Tyrion admitted with a reluctant grin.

A blush stained her pale skin. "I wish I could say how you want me to say it."

"There's time for corruption and lechery in our life together, Sansa. Just give me what you have."

The fire danced on her skin, battling the shadows on the opposite side of her face. Biting her lip, Sansa rolled her mouth inward and released them with a sigh. "I want you to show me how to love you," she whispered, pausing only for a second before swallowing. "I want to feel you inside me, so I can forget…"

Her eyes dropped, but he caught her falling chin in his hand and sealed the silence with a needy, brief kiss. "No more…you're far better than you think." Tyrion was hard and fully erect. Grumbling inaudible curses and incoherent phrases from the different languages he'd learned over his years, he leaned away from her, removing her touch from his body altogether.

Sansa folded her hands in her lap, leaning her head against the foot of the bed. Sighing, she smiled. "Stay with me until morning?"

"I'm not capable of staying away any longer," Tyrion said, growling and rubbing his face. She slid into her bed first, but he was at her side as he'd promised—joining her in the bed they would share for the rest of their lives.

Needless to say, Tyrion dreaded leaving Winterfell.

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**[A/N] **I'm not sure when I will be able to update this in the next week, exactly. My goal is to update this at least once per week going forward!

**Please review!**


	14. Fourteen

**_The Edge of War's End_**

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** So...it's been a while. I didn't know how to fit the intended chapter(s) anymore, so I took some time to evaluate this story and found this chapter was the right direction. Updates should be much more frequent, as I've exited my story crisis! I hope you enjoy!

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**_Chapter 14__:_**

_Sansa_

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The world seemed quite small when the queen of the sovereign North awoke. Darkness still kissed the sky, despite the promise of a new morning. What stars gleamed in their distance cowered back into the night's depth, fading behind the strokes of light that banished them. The snow sheathed the ground beyond the castle walls, of which parts still needed great repair. Although the horizon stretched passed the view from her window and the blur of trees in the distance remained as it had each day, Sansa could not taste the same crisp, sharp air in her lungs.

Tucking her bottom lip under her teeth, Sansa wiped away tears she'd begged the gods to keep and looked down at her joined hands on the sill. Her thumb tapped against her other gloved hand, matching the speed of her impatient heart. The North hardly won any contests in terms of population and structures, but the longer she perused its splendor, the emptier the surrounding gloom appeared, too.

Breathing only made the hollow ache in her womb vibrate against her insides more, and she shuffled her legs in a poor attempt to feel whole again. At least she wasn't looking at the sleeping, fully dressed man in her bed, softly snoring while she sank further into something akin to agony. Nerves bubbled all over her skin, and her toes curled naturally the longer she dwelled on his sleeping form.

No matter how many times she sighed or grumbled, the odd sensation rattled her mind and ensnared her body. Licking her lips, Sansa sighed; however, the noise wasn't as soft as she'd been in the last few hours. Winter jolted from where he lay, slowly recognizing it was only her and whining his way through his usual yawn.

"Continue to sigh like that, and I'll start to think you're cross with me." Tyrion's voice was muffled, but distinct.

A shiver pinched the base of her head and rocked down her spine until her fingers rolled into her palms. "I-I'm not cross, Tyrion."

"That's what all women say when they're cross…" Tyrion's voice was more distant, deeper in the morning. It was a quality she hadn't noticed before.

Swallowing, she exhaled, her chords tuning a singsong burst of laughter from her chest. "That's not what's going on…"

_That's certainly not what she'd meant to say._

Sansa flattened her brows and caught her breath before turning around. Fidgeting her fingers to clutch the thick pelt over her chest, she pressed her lips together and pried her mouth upward on one corner. She likely looked like a fool.

_If only she knew why._

"Nothing's going on…I just don't feel well."

Tyrion wrestled with the bed linens and furs, lines wrinkling his forehead and eyes narrowing. "You're ill?"

"No…" She looked away when he lowered from the bed and walked around it toward her. Her skin dampened as the room became noticeably warmer. Brushing her stray hair from her face, Sansa settled her eyes on his mouth, which moved. However, whatever he said went entirely unheard.

Tyrion left the next morning. Neither of them knew the exact amount of time he'd be gone. The knowledge that he'd return was overshadowed by an exquisite blend of anticipation and dread. After years of focusing on saving Winterfell, Sansa knew what she wanted—for him to never leave her.

Tears stung her eyes. Of course, she'd be unfit to enjoy what little time they had before he went away.

But this was a state she'd never felt before. It was wholly unnerving. Frantic and exhausting. Painful, yet pleasurable in some unknown and perfect way.

The dim firelight glossed his skin, warming it up in all the right ways the highlight just how striking he was in their private moments. The more he moved his mouth, the quicker her breaths drew between each other. She swallowed again and licked her lips, unable to cut her fixation on his lips.

Tyrion's features relaxed, a smile lighting up his eyes the longer he examined her. Sansa leaned against the windowsill, and her hands break their solid grip on the pelt over her shoulders, exposing her nightclothes to him.

_What was wrong with her?_

When he started chuckling, Sansa shook her head, narrowing her eyes down at him. "What's so funny?"

"How long have you been up?"

She couldn't ignore his arrogant grin. Biting her lip, she adjusted her legs as the heat between them became suddenly cool the longer her growing agitation distracted her from how she felt. "You snore quite loudly."

Tilting his head to his side, Tyrion crept closer toward her. "Not quite the answer I require, my love."

Sansa sighed, brows pinching toward her nose. "A few hours at most."

Covering his face with his hand, he poorly hid his laughter from her. "Sansa, need I remind you we read to each other into the night?" Tyrion stepped toward her, his movements achingly slow. "_I've_ been asleep for a few hours at most."

A blush colored her cheeks, the warmth gathering from across her body. The closer Tyrion stalked toward her, the more he reminded her of a hunter, of the men who'd looked at her like she was their prey. Tongue going dry, her palms moistened as her heart rate surged. A small smile broke her flattened mouth.

Sansa had had enough of this game. It was obvious he thought he knew what was wrong. Tucking her chin against her shoulder, she sighed, nostrils flaring. "Need I remind you? I was there." The ends of her loose hair fell over her shoulder, and she began playing with them.

"Look at me, Sansa."

Biting her lip, the queen suffered a groan as she slid down the wall, eyes reluctantly finding his. Her eyes sharpened, hands flat against the frigid floor, the longer he didn't speak. The rate of heart surged until she felt breathless. Crossing her legs and tucking them under her thick nightclothes, Sansa relaxed her mouth and swallowed when he stepped forward.

Tyrion was in every way an unconventional man. He was never the image she'd pictured as the man who she'd love since her childhood. Until now, he'd always been the shining example of a serious, wise man who sometimes drank himself into oblivion. Of course, there'd been moments when the world stopped spinning in the moments she stole glances at him when he wasn't looking.

Despite everything he and nearly everyone she knew constantly reminded her of, Tyrion Lannister was all man with delicious and devilish hard eyes right now. The way he looked at her is unlike she'd seen him look at anyone else.

Even Daenerys Stormborn.

Sansa's body shook harder the closer he came to her. Although he'd spent the night in her bed, he was still fully clothed. However, the top of his shirt had untied. His heaving chest was a bit more exposed to her. From the way he glared at her, he either passionately hated her, or he wanted to devour her much like she'd wanted to devour food in times where it simply didn't exist.

If only she understood what it truly meant. At twenty and a queen, Sansa sometimes felt more like a prudish lady than the woman she'd become. It wasn't as if she didn't know what he wanted. In all their time together, she knew she'd wanted it, too.

Fear and apprehension always fed at the back of her mind anytime she'd pushed herself with him. Even then, she'd never wanted to cry and touch someone so ardently—all at once. Never had she stayed up all night as laughter and love dwelled into dread, which burned into…something new and unknown.

Sansa reached for him, and Tyrion caught her shaking hand in his warm palm. Stepping toward her for the last time, he fell to his knees, and they froze between the barrier of his resolve and her confusion.

His smile evaporated, Tyrion leaned away from her when she moved toward him. "We can't, Sansa."

Sansa's eyes welled, fingers shaking as they curled into her palm on the cold stone floor. "And why not?"

"I made Jon a promise." Tyrion leaned into her and buried his face in her hair, inhaling until he stretched his tongue out against her hot, damp neck, permitting a soft moan from her throat. "I'm not to touch you until we're wed."

Taking her earlobe between his teeth, he bit harder than he'd ever had. The tension the spot endured eventually bubbled in pain, but Sansa only reached for his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. One of his arms slithered around her body until his hand almost reached the small of her back, hand jittery as he squeezed the top of her rear.

Releasing her lobe between his teeth, Tyrion groaned and traced her jawline with delicate kisses until he reached her chin. Raising his hand higher, Sansa opened her mouth and gasped as she arched her back, shoving her small breasts closer to his face. Lowering to his knees, he moved his mouth on hers as he swallowed, shaking his head.

Sansa untangled her legs and bent them at the knee, opening herself to him. The thought that this was exactly where she'd had him months ago crossed her mind in a flash that sent chills down her spine until the apex of her thighs burned and wept with moisture she hoped was normal.

Licking her lips, Sansa quietly whimpered. "Since when do either of us keep our promises to Jon?"

Pressing his mouth on hers, Tyrion grumbled, cursing as he gently nipped her skin with his teeth. "It might be high time we do."

"Tyrion, please!" she whispered, wrapping her legs around him and tugging him against her. Arching forward, she opened her mouth and stroked his tongue with hers, the act somehow foreign and familiar. Exploring the expanse of his mouth, she angled her head differently to invite him deeper. While her bold actions and initiative in their intimate moment were new, Sansa couldn't live another moment without having him, knowing him in a way she hoped no other woman had.

The bastard had the audacity to lean away from her, though his hooded eyes shined in the shadows that drenched the room. The only light that spared them from the darkness was the dying embers from the raging fire from hours ago. She reached for his face, stroking his jaw with her index finger until it lowered to his chin.

Tyrion swallowed, eyes closing and mouth lowering to the back of her hand. "You want this only because I'm due to leave in the morning."

"Tyrion," Sansa moaned. Threading her fingers in his wild hair, she shook her head and shoved her mouth against his briefly. "I've been raped, beaten, and fucked." Pecking his mouth, she untangled her hands in his mane to loosen the tethers stringing her nightclothes tight. The tops of her breasts prickled with gooseflesh the longer the freezing air squeezed them, molding her nipples to hard beads against the tight fabric. Claiming his hand, she ushered it to her bare skin over her racing heart. "Show me love tonight."

Seconds were only fragments of moments; however, the longer he stared at her, Sansa tasted the beginning of eternity. Tyrion didn't kiss her. He didn't touch her further. In fact, he stood up, sliding his hand from her bare flesh. The small man stood over her, the tall girl who'd fought to be queen in the North, watching her down his nose.

Tears stung her eyes, threatening to fall until he extended his hand to her. "As you wish," Tyrion murmured. Taking his hand, Sansa narrowed her eyes and folded her legs under her as she moved to sit on her knees before him. He waited for her to join him at his height until he moved his hand to her shoulder, still her from raising any further.

When his firm grip softened, he moved his hand to cup her cheek. With a single, quick kiss on her nose, the gentle man who'd read to her and made her laugh just hours ago hardened his eyes and licked his lips. Dropping his hand from her face to the base of her throat, he dragged his hand lower, trailing one finger toward her cleavage. "Get into bed," he commanded, dropping her hand and backing away as he loosened his collar.

Somehow, Sansa stood and meandered to the bed, nerves tickling her stomach for the first time tonight. Biting her lip, she tucked some hair behind her ear and flattened her palm against her stomach, swallowing quietly as Tyrion moved behind her, reaching for her hand and guiding it lower until he kept it at her center.

Teeth tormented the middle of her back through the fabric of her nightdress, the bite brief and perfect. Tyrion shifted his fingers between hers as he forced her to face the desire he inspired. "Do you feel your desire?"

"Yes," she whimpered, the sound louder than she'd meant to be.

"Never again will anyone hurt you, Sansa." Tyrion moved his fingers deeper in her sex. A shiver rocked her spine. "You will know desire as I always have," he said, sealing his promise with a gentle kiss on the back of her arm. "We will love as we never loved anything else."

"Tyrion…"

Groaning, Tyrion withdrew his touch and moved his hands to her hips, keeping her still until he urged her toward the bed. "Get in the bed, Sansa."

Gasping when she tripped over her own ankles, Sansa fell back on the bed, head turned toward the man who'd always kept her safe and made her feel comfortable. Chest heaving, she couldn't stop the heavy tear from escaping the control she let go of.

For him.

Tyrion struggled climbing the bed, but eventually, he crawled toward her until he was over her. He lowered himself onto his elbows as he nudged her nose with his, the edge of his scar nipping her lashes until he pulled away to look over her. His fingers were lost in her hair until he slid his palm under her head.

Breathless, Sansa blinked a few times as she waited for him to guide her through whatever nefarious and illicit plans he made for them. The waiting and uncertainty crippled her mind, and she wished she could be bold for him: to show him what she wanted from him.

Tyrion had loved women before her. In her youth, she'd fooled herself into thinking she'd loved Joffrey. And while she'd never loved or cared for Ramsay, Sansa had convinced herself she could learn to care for him. He'd been decent to her in the beginning—before their wedding night. Pretty words and a moderately pretty face, her second husband was the second man that in some way matched the man she'd thought she'd end up with as a girl.

The man in her bed was the first she'd chosen. He was likely the only man she wholly trusted. Sansa only wanted to please him in the way she knew he'd please her, but she wasn't sure where to start or end in the marriage bed.

Margaery, Arya, and Theon were no longer around to help answer her questions. Sansa had to be brave and trust Tyrion could eventually help her over time to get her to where he needed her to be.

Sansa's chest heaved, breaths shallow and quick as she searched his eyes. The desire that had kept her up all night beckoned her from a deep, dark crevice in her mind, reminding her that she loved this broken man. Sansa slipped her palm over his face, cupping his cheek and eventually sliding her thumb over his bottom lip. His mouth hung open as her touch made him groan and eyes close.

Shaking his head, Tyrion lowered his mouth to hers, lips lingering in their chaste kiss until he lifted himself away again. "Sansa, you're the best of them."

The man had the audacity to use her words against her. Emotion swelled in her eyes, and she shook her head. "How can you know that?" she asked, fingers playing with the ends of his beard hair before more tears dropped down over her temples into her hair. "I wish you wouldn't lie to me."

"Sansa, I will never lie to you." Tyrion stroked her hair, fanning it on her pillow and returning his thumb to her high cheekbone. "Do you know how many times I've done this?"

Sansa squirmed, trying to move away from him, but he held her there under him. "I don't want to talk about this right now."

Tyrion shoved his mouth on hers. At first, she tried moving her face away, but he did a damned good job chasing her wherever she tried to flee. Opening his mouth, he took advantage of her gasp, slipping inside of her warmth and exploring idly until she relaxed. Tyrion lowered himself to her, showing her his desire as he ground himself in the same way he'd once done in his room.

The cold air nipped at her skin, but her sex tingled as he continued his efforts. Moaning, Sansa reached for the back of his head and matched his pace. The gods had given him to her, and she was helpless any longer to move away. When she needed breath, he reluctantly pulled back, setting his forehead on hers, chest wild with passion.

"I'm usually always drunk or nearly there when I have a woman. When I'm not, it's the pain of the life I've had to endure driving me to yet another warm body. It's usually always a woman I've paid. Not one soul has kept me company that I have not paid, nor did they choose me, Sansa. Not until I'd already bought them."

Tyrion swallowed, pressing a kiss on her temple where her tears were. When she opened her eyes, he offered her a sad smile. "I've not known true love until you, Sansa. Nothing about my life has been without conditions to some degree." He loosened the string at her chest and spread the fabric to her sides when he finished his ministration. Sansa instinctively made to shield her chest from him, but he caught her wrists in his gentle grasp, setting them back on her pillow.

"I thought the only woman who could change my world was Daenerys, the would-be queen who craved to break the wheel that had run over me my entire, miserable life." Tyrion shifted over her, crawling back until he opened her legs and situated himself between them. He spent no time staring at her bare chest. Tyrion reached for her neck, and she immediately lifted from the bed until he captured her mouth, moaning and panting between their messy exploration.

After a few more seconds, Tyrion cupped her breasts, permitting a loud, whiny moan from her throat. He bent down, claiming one of them into his mouth, suckling until the hard nub of her nipple hurt. Swirling his tongue around the sensitive spot, he groaned when she moved her hands to his hair. His other hand teased her other nipple.

Sansa arched her back and threw her head back, the promise of another loud moan awakening in her lungs. Nothing would keep her from having him tonight, so she clamped her hand over her mouth to keep others from hearing her. Sansa hadn't enjoyed hearing her aunt and Petyr on their wedding night, and she hoped she'd never get so loud.

Tyrion kissed the side of her other breast before guiding her back onto the bed and kissing her ribs as he slid out of his pants, keeping his shirt on for now. Sansa sucked in her breath as he stared at her and kissed above her belly button. "Sansa, you've made a new world for us both—one where love and desire reign over everything that's torn our souls apart."

Tears distorted her vision, and she let them fall. She watched him as he clutched the fabric where the string ended and pulled apart a decent portion of her nightdress. Grumbling, he looked over at her nightstand, seeing the dagger Arya had given her and plucking it from the tabletop. Gripping the handle, he snaked his arm under her dress and slipped the blade vertical, dragging until the rest of the fabric tore, breaking the last of the shield she carried and the last layer keeping him from her. Before he continued, he set the blade back on the table.

Sansa watched his eyes when they returned on her body. A smile she'd not seen pried both corners of his flat mouth upward. The smile reached his eyes, which heated with something akin to desire. Only more. Biting her lip, Sansa trembled as he lowered his mouth to her belly again. "You're exquisite, Sansa," he moaned, sinking his teeth into her skin as he dragged himself lower.

A blush warmed her cheeks as she looked down. Was he going to stop? Before he reached the gathering of hair between her legs, he nipped her hip and met her eyes, which sparkled with mischief and everything unknown.

"Bend your knees, Sansa." The way he said her name sent chills across her body, and she complied. Breaking their eye contact, Tyrion reached under her leg and brought her thigh to his lips.

Gulping, Sansa moaned his name as he licked her skin there and closed her eyes. His fingers pressed against her sex, electrifying her until her toes curled. Exploring for a few seconds, he instantly found the most sensitive spot on her, teasing her between his fingers for a bit before lowering and slowly sliding them inside her.

Sansa opened her eyes, body tensing. "Tyrion…" The last time a man was between her legs, she'd wanted to die. The distant reminder flashed the bitter pain in her mind, and she jerked against him. Her body naturally clenched, closing her legs until he was knocked over her, a prisoner between her steel-like grip. Tears stung her eyes, and she covered her face and looked away. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Tyrion crawled back up to her and kissed her fingers until she could face him again. "There's no need to apologize, my love." His warm hands cupped her breasts, tickling her skin until her body relaxed. "Do you need me to stop?"

Shaking her head, Sansa reached for him and kissed him gently. "I want you to make love to me, Tyrion." A shiver raced down her back, and her jittery fingers caught the fabric at his back. "I want to know what it's supposed to feel like."

"If I push too far, you must tell me, Sansa," Tyrion said, brows flat and mouth thin.

Nodding, she wiped her eyes and smiled.

Tyrion waited for a few seconds before easing her thighs apart and returning to his previous position between them. Stroking the inside of her right thigh, Tyrion replaced his finger with his lips until he reached her hipbone. Sansa watched him intently as he slid his hands over to the outside of her hips.

"Don't scream," he absently said before slamming into her sex, swirling his tongue around the same sensitive bud he'd found before. Licking and sucking, Tyrion moaned as he dragged his tongue over her—bottom to top—several times, sighing her name when he came up for breath before returning to his attention at her center.

Sansa covered her mouth with a shaking fist as frustration manifested into tears, which spilled down her temples. Clenching her teeth together, she contained the need to cry out his name and moan to the heavens with the pain of her tight, grinding jaw. Arching her back as he reached around to grip her bum, Sansa exhaled as her head shook and eyes fluttered closed.

"Touch me, Sansa," Tyrion pleaded.

Unknowing of what exactly he meant, Sansa somehow twitched her hand down until she gripped his hair, hoping it was enough. Each time he bobbed or shook his head, her arm moved with him as he devoured her. He spread her legs open, widening her up for him to continue his forbidden feast until her legs were pressing into the mattress.

Tyrion lifted his head only long enough to blow cool air into her sex, which thrust a loud moan from her mouth despite her best efforts. He placed his hands on her hips, thumbs stroking her bare flesh as he coaxed sounds out of her she never thought she was capable of making. Toes curling, her spine shook as she swallowed, eyes lifting higher until she was sure they rolled back into her head.

"Shh…" Tyrion said against her center.

When he entered her with his tongue, the world ignited in bright colors all around her until she swore stars scattered the roof of her room. Somehow, he went deeper inside her, and she felt like she was flying.

Tyrion broke away and kissed her belly before moving back to her breasts, pressing a single kiss on each. "You taste more intoxicating than any wine I've consumed, Sansa." He continued his journey back to her mouth as she heaved her chest, riding out the edge of a glory he'd given to her. Her mouth hung open as she shivered until he brushed her face, bringing her back to reality. When she was able to focus on him, she noticed a smug grin plastered on his mouth. "I see you enjoyed that."

Sansa had never had the opportunity to see him so carefree and relaxed, but she hardly had enough willpower to stop and analyze what had happened. Lust tangled with her control, steering her mind to new, uncharted emotions. Tyrion hovered over her, staring down at her while she caught her breath.

Until she claimed his lips, tongue slapping against his. She instantly tasted herself, a swirl of sweet and tangy. Sansa wanted to feel him against her, and despite their obvious difference in stature, she would find a way to make it happen. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his oversized shirt until it began to collect at his hips, but he caught it before she could catch a glimpse of anything she'd yet seen.

"Sansa…" The arrogance embedded in his easy smile faded away behind shame or embarrassment. Meeting her eyes, Tyrion shook his head. "I'm not like other men."

Snaking an arm around his shoulders, she brought him to her and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. "Good."

"Stop," he insisted, pulling away.

Sitting up, the queen caught his face after he managed to look away, his shirt slipping back down over his legs. Winter's touch prickled her skin, but there was no going back now. It didn't matter that he'd likely done everything he had done to her with countless other women. She wanted him, and he needed to know she wanted all of him.

"I love you, Tyrion."

Questioning eyes snapped on hers. His mouth hung open like he knew he wanted to reply but didn't know what to say. Tilting his head, he buried his face in her naked chest, pressing kisses there until pulled away and could face her again. "Tell me what you want."

A blush warmed her skin, but she didn't look away. Swallowing, she reached for his hand. "I want to feel you against me—skin to skin. I want to know you—all of you."

Tyrion scratched the back of his head and then his beard, biting his lip. However, his eyes never left hers. Slowly nodding, Tyrion let go of her hand and slipped the shirt over his head. "I love you, Sansa." Throwing the shirt to the foot of the bed, Tyrion rubbed his neck as he dropped his eyes from hers. "I will never be anything to look at, but I will always be yours." Legs stretched out, Tyrion clenched his jaw as he looked at her again.

A sharp breath cut through her lungs, and her exhale was slow and loud. He would never know what he was to her. She would spend the rest of their life together making sure he understood the weight of who he was. For now, she smiled and reached for his face, crawling over to him with a shy bravery. Where it came from she did not know.

Sansa swallowed and brushed his hair back with shaky fingers. When she reached him, she slowly straddled him, searching for his mouth with her own. Their lips met again, and she explored his chest with her hands, eventually cupping his face with her palm. Looking down at him, his cock sprang up toward her sex, hard and softer than she'd expected. At the sudden contact, she twitched in his lap.

"I've only ever needed you, Tyrion. I will spend the rest of our life showing you what you mean to me, how striking you actually are." Sansa captured his lips, arching her back, so she'd have a better angle.

Tyrion's hands moved to her waist, though he lowered them to her hips. His nails lightly scratched her skin, and she moaned. "And what if I never come to believe you?"

Sansa gently smiled, stroking his face. "Then I shall chase you into a new life and find you. I'll school you until you believe me even if it takes fifteen lifetimes."

"What is my best feature, then?" Tyrion asked, distracted as she sank lower on him. His cock twitched against her, and she bit her lip. He moved his hand to it as he steadied her hips over him. He silently guided her onto him after a few times of missing her entrance. She wasn't moving away from him on purpose, but she needed to acclimate to the sensation before she fully committed.

Sansa sharply inhaled when his tip teased her entrance. Sweat pooled all over her skin. Biting her lip, she stroked his hair. "Your best feature?"

"Though you may have a limited selection, I must have at least one."

Tyrion grabbed both of her hips and ushered her lower until he stretched her in a familiar way, though pain wasn't a word she'd use to describe what she felt. Discomfort at first, but he kissed away any trepidation she may have felt as she continued her descent onto his cock. Sucking in a breath, Sansa dropped her head on his shoulder, gripping his hair as she groaned. He paused his hands. While he held her still, she felt him quake against her. When he breathed deeply, his cock twitched inside of her, causing her to moan.

"Your hair, beard and all. When I first saw you pulling into Winterfell with Daenerys, I felt heat at my skin for the first time since leaving King's Landing." Sansa pressed her nails in his skin as she lowered her arms to wrap around his back. Tyrion helped her lower again, and she inhaled a sharp breath. "But the answer may change as we continue to familiarize ourselves with the other."

A deep laugh rumbled low in Tyrion's chest. "Is that a compliment for my cock?"

Sansa threw her head back, and Tyrion placed kisses starting at her collarbones and slowly moving up until her chin. Her moan was quieter than before, but his name on her mouth might have stirred this part of the castle. She finally held all of him inside her to the base.

Sansa hardly noticed things like how deep Ramsay reached within her or how thick he was while he violated her, but Tyrion hit a spot at deepest part of her womb. His size sent her into a frenzy, shattering every memory of Ramsay and all her marriage bed experiences for now.

Tyrion lowered his hands until he cupped both cheeks of her bum, squeezing indelicately. Sansa moved her hands on his smaller body, feeling a similar thick layer of sweat drenching his body.

"You feel…" Sansa whispered, struggling to find the boldness required to discuss one's privates. She moved to look at him, brushing his chin with the back of her index finger. "I don't know how to say what I know you know I want to say." Searching his eyes, she kissed him quickly. "How have others said it?"

Tyrion shook his head. "I don't want to hear what they think. How would you describe it, Sansa? Give me your honesty." He twitched his cock inside her, and she gasped.

"Ramsay only ever hurt me, and he never once made an effort to let it be enjoyable." Sansa rocked her hips back when he twitched inside of her again, and Tyrion moaned her name. "I don't know if he was impressive, Tyrion, but the way you're stretching me…" He sucked on her nipple, and she inhaled.

"Does it hurt?"

Sansa shook her head, kissing his neck lightly. "No…but when it has thus far, it's like the pain makes it better."

"Fuck…" he groaned. "Sansa…" he said, exhaling as he adjusted underneath her. "You have so much to explore within your own sexuality, my love. And I promise to show you everything you desire for the rest of our lives."

Tears stung her eyes as she brushed the side of his face. "Break with me, Tyrion."

Shoving her back onto the mattress, Tyrion slipped out of her and chased her as she moved back toward the headboard. When he reached her, he shocked her by ramming back inside of her. Her brows dipped as she adjusted to his maddening ruthlessness. "Tyrion…" she whimpered as he rubbed her center with his gentle fingers.

He rocked out of her and slammed back into her—all the way to his hilt. "Keep saying my name like that, and I won't last much longer," he said, a moan rumbling down to where they were joined. "Fuck, Sansa, you're so fucking wet for me…and tight."

Sansa wrapped her hand around him, not paying attention to where it landed. On his ass. She mimicked his actions over the night and squeezed, permitting a needy, pained groan from his throat.

"The way your cunt squeezes my cock…_gods_, Sansa."

Sansa blushed at his vulgarity, finding it somehow unreasonably intoxicating as he ravaged her. He repeated his ruthless speed until he quickened, throwing his head back and moaning her name over and over like it was a prayer. His body shivered more with each thrust, which came quick than the last. Together, they whimpered each other's name between sloppy kisses. Eventually, Sansa wrapped her legs around his hips, trapping him where he was.

"S-Sansa…I'm going to…" Tyrion said, the ecstasy on his features mirroring her own. However, in his eyes was conflict.

Gasping and panting, Sansa moved her hands from his bum to his chest, hands wrapping around the curve of his shoulders until her fingers touched his collarbones. "I want you to."

Though he continued, his speed decreased the longer he stared down at her. "Are you sure?"

"Tyrion, I've seen you with your niece and nephew. You were born to be a father. I want our family to start as soon as possible," Sansa moaned. Brushing his chin, she kissed him. "I want to spoil you with so many children, you go mad."

The man in her arms chuckled, nuzzling her nose with his. Quickly, his pace returned. When he pounded against her, they slapped together, the sweat making their bodies slide against each other in ways likely not to be the most attractive. She was lost in his magic, and she didn't want to be saved. If he was fire, then let them burn.

Together.

His movements became needier until he stilled, shivering as he came inside of her. She broke seconds after he did. Her womb was filled and warm, though he was still inside her. Swallowing, she leaned her head back, basking in the rapture he'd built for her. Her chest heaved, each time her skin brushed against his as they panted back down to reality.

Sliding out of her, he kissed the side of her damp head and threw himself on her bed next to her, instantly seeking out her hand to envelop it in his. He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand until she moved her head on his chest, looking at the open window and the rising light outside.

Sansa could still feel him inside her, but when she opened her eyes, she could see him and his length. Despite his size, he was quite impressive—at least to her untrained opinion. Blushing, she moved her head up to look at him. Tyrion already stared down at her, eyes unreadable.

Tyrion adjusted on the bed so that he leaned against the two thick pillows on her bed, inclining against the large headboard. He combed his fingers in her long, fiery hair. Sansa readjusted so that her chest was flat against his. Reaching for him, she pressed her mouth against his, and he returned it with the same desperation he'd just tormented her with.

"What could possibly be the matter?" Sansa asked. Was he always so sullen afterward?

Tyrion pecked her lips, a sad smile lingering on them. "I don't know how to leave you after making love to you…"

"You won't be gone for long, Tyrion."

Laughing, Tyrion shook his head, eyes narrowed. "You can't know that."

"Tyrion, you must leave. We've both known about this for months. You owe it to my brother to explain our circumstance in person." Sansa said without enthusiasm. Her eyes weren't bright with reassurance, but it was what someone needed to say. "You're his Hand."

"But my heart is here, Sansa." Tyrion reached for her hand. "I never had a choice to be his hand."

"We just made love, Tyrion." Reaching for his cheek, she sighed. "Is this really what you want to talk about?"

Tyrion swallowed but had the decency to look apologetic. Scratching the back of his head, he nodded. "You're right. Let's not let me spoil this morning."

"You haven't spoiled anything, Tyrion," Sansa confessed. She kissed the side of his face and then lowered her mouth to his chest, hand moving over his heart. "You're the only man I've been lain with…" Rubbing her thumb over his naked skin, she smiled. "I just want to enjoy it for a little while." Curling her legs, she watched the sunrise until sleep eventually took her.

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**[A/N]** I'm not sure when I will be able to update this in the next week, exactly. My goal is to update this at least once per week going forward! However, don't be shocked if it's every ten days some weeks.

Please review!


	15. Fifteen

**_The Edge of War's End_**

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE] **I'm not sure if interest in this story has just waned or if it's just the site being wonderful, but I appreciate every read/view/review. If you still enjoy this story, please consider taking a moment to share your thoughts with me, so I may know your interest is still with me. It's easier to write with encouragement, after all. enjoy!

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**_Chapter 15__:_**

_Tyrion_

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Despite Winterfell's usual monochromatic display bleeding till the horizon, the day was somehow brighter. The colors once hidden from him now sparkled more powerful than any other day he'd suffered through. Swallowing his wine down, Tyrion stood on a stool along the high walls protecting the castle within, staring at the Godswood tree. Winter's cool touch made his gloves feel more suffocating than usual—for whatever reason.

Nursing an overdue shiver down his spine, Tyrion sighed, rubbing his hands together and rolling his shoulders back. Whether age finally came out to play with him or what, his bones and muscles seemed to ache more this morning than he remembered. Sure, it could have been the fact that just hours ago he'd absolutely devoured Sansa Stark. Sighing, he parted his mouth, still feeling her ripe cunt there.

Fucking was something he'd done—likely thousands of times by now. There was no longer any reason to undercut it. He had to be honest with himself. Sure, he'd been the drunken little lecher—as Ros once told him. The scores or women who he'd enjoyed over the years had given him a pleasure his private and social life lacked. It had been the company he'd desired.

The fucking was only an added benefit.

A gust of wind made Tyrion close his eyes and wonder why he'd left Sansa to come outside in the first place. It hadn't been the first night to hold her in her sleep, but while she'd spent hours preceding their joining restless and awake, it was he who couldn't fall back asleep after the ordeal.

Tyrion didn't like thinking about his father, but his mind eased back onto the bastard easily the more he thought of his life. The little man couldn't conjure up the good memories with Tysha or Shae without the dead man ringing reality across his mind. Giving Sansa to him whilst she was still so young could have broken him back when things were both simpler and torturous.

Inevitable was the fact that Tyrion would have fallen in love with his wife. He had such a gift for loving others who hurt him.

Shae was a complicated distraction whom he had genuinely loved. Tyrion still clung to the possibility that she'd spared him any loving in kind, but the more time dragged its feet over his prone body, the clearer the truth settled in his mind. Shae was always only a woman who represented the woman he wanted. That she was a whore had never been the problem. The problem was that they'd expected too much of the other.

Tywin Lannister knew what he'd done when he'd sold Sansa's life to his unwanted son. If they'd had more time together, Tyrion would have succumbed to the suffocating binds of unrequited love. He'd have spent the rest of his miserable life waiting for a day she'd care about him in the same way. Perhaps, he'd have witnessed what was left of his spirit fumble as he waited for her attraction for him.

Fate had tethered them together long before shit started spewing everywhere. Across their joined history, he'd saved and spared her a few times, but he'd die showing her how much she'd recovered in him. Before her, he'd resigned to the fate of knowing he'd killed another person he supposedly loved.

Rolling his eyes, he sighed, not desiring to continue this morbid chain of thought. Tyrion wanted to dwell on the present, his future with the love of his life. It was time to leave the past behind him.

Hopping off the stool, Tyrion rubbed his hands against the many layers he wore in an effort to recall what warmth felt like. Walking to the door he knew would deliver him to Sansa's room the quickest, he spared no more thought or attention to the tree they would be joined at in the coming days.

Because he wasn't going to leave her.

Bran had to know of his fate, but Tyrion had written a letter in his restless shock after taking Sansa. The rest of his life needed to begin as soon as possible. All he had to do was sign his official resignation with false regrets and pity and send his pendant back with Podrick and Bronn. Since making love to Sansa, he had yet to don it. Instead, he carried it in one of his pockets in case he actually stumbled across either of his old friends, who were conveniently missing from their rooms. Tyrion suspected it also had something to do with the missing giant and Jon.

No one slept in the proper room except Sansa Stark last night.

When he entered the castle, moving through the halls in his slow pace, he strolled along until he reached the stairs leading up to Sansa's room, where a boy intercepted him before he could flee.

"I've been looking all over for you, Lord Hand." Haphazardly bowing, he searched the stack of letters in his hand until he stumbled across one waxed with the familiar seal. "This came for you overnight."

Tyrion nodded, offering the courier boy a tired smile. "Thank you." As the boy left, Tyrion didn't wait to tear into the parchment. Scanning his eyes over the mostly blank page, he read, _'You found what you need. Stay.'_

Chuckling, Tyrion shook his head, taking the stairs with greater haste. The need to see Sansa fed on his stomach. Although not terribly early, it was still morning, so much of the people in town were still stationed to their homes. Wherever the rest of the men of Sansa's inner circle were, they likely wouldn't emerge back for at least another hour or two if they had retired to the tavern like he suspected was the case.

Handling the door to her room, Tyrion cracked it, revealing her bed to be emptied of any queen; however, the room's warmth spread over his face, making him close his eyes and inhaling before he checked by the fireplace. This delivered the image of Sansa only feet from her large fireplace bundled in one of her thinner furs. The door squeaked, giving him away to her. Sansa gasped, turning her head toward the door as she rubbed her neck and rolled her shoulders.

"Good morning," Tyrion said, stepping into the room and locking the door. When his skin started to dampen, he unraveled the cloak he wore from him and cast it onto her bed. "I'm glad someone's enjoying a respite from the cold."

Sansa's mouth upturned as her eyes sparkled, radiating the flickering flames' heat. Her hair wasn't yet styled; instead, it all hung over her shoulders over the pelt until it nearly hit the floor. "It's only now getting tolerable enough to go without my thickest pelts," she replied, eyes dipping to his hands. Her easy smile dwindled as she found his gaze again. "News?"

"Stop assuming the worst, and read for yourself," Tyrion said, dropping beside her and handing off the parchment before he stroked her hair back behind her ear. When she leaned her cheek into his covered palm, he replaced it with a kiss as he tore away the gloves. While she read the parchment, he stared at her, inching closer toward her. With her hands busy, he tugged down the fur from her shoulder and pressed his lips against her nightclothes there.

Sansa didn't balk at his intimate touch like she did when they were married under his father's orders. Instead, she moaned, looking down at him with tears in her eyes. Her brows dipped toward her nose as she shook her head. "What did you find?" she whispered, her mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile.

Tyrion cocked his head and sighed. "The missive says _'Stay,'_ and your first question," he pauses, reaching for her hand. Trailing his stubby index finger from the center of her palm up to her elbow, he chuckles. "Is what did I find?"

Sansa's breath hitched, the gasp caught in her throat stuttering out of her mouth and onto his shirt and ticking the small patch of naked skin there. As he grabbed her arm, he pulled her wrist to his lips, gently nibbling the exposed flesh. When he flashed his hues back to hers, a pretty blush colored her pale face.

Gods, she was beautiful. Even as a girl. Shae had not distracted him from committing to an inappropriate desire for her—in all her misery in King's Landing. As the fire cracked to their side, its colors danced over her features. Although light outside, the windows were closed, and the room's only light source was the fire. Tugging on her wrist, she surrendered to him as he led her closer to him—even as he eased her legs apart.

The same ardent passion burned her eyes as they had last night, but otherwise, her features remained indifferent until he eased her lower on his lap, where she gasped again and allowed her mouth to pout open. Her warm thighs tore winter's grasp from his skin, permitting a low growl from his bobbing throat. She had not yet dressed, so all that kept him from her was the thick layer of her nightdress—one he'd decidedly not disfigured. As he lowered his hands, he dragged his nails from her knee to her hips, the dress gathering and exposing her long, youthful legs he'd had wrapped around him just hours ago.

The thought made him lick his lips, and steal a brief kiss from her. Pulling back, he shook against her lithe body, cupping her waist as he spoke. "I've found paradise amidst a wasteland," he whispered, gently bringing her closer until their chests touched. Sansa scratched her fingernails across his back, and he cursed the many layers of clothing he still suffered. "I'm just a trespasser, but I'm too selfish to turn back now."

Threading her fingers into his beard, Sansa teased him with gentle kisses. Resting her hand over his on her waist, she relaxed her features but drew her breaths quick while her lip trembled. "You once said we were perfect for each other as the demon monkey and the disgraced daughter."

Tyrion gulped and laced his short fingers in hers, tugging their joined hands to her hip. There was nothing in this world he wanted more than to feel her against him. Distracted, he moved his head back to accommodate her mouth better. "I might have said something so dreadful."

A hand busied at his pants, but he caught her fidgety fingers. Before he could speak, she claimed his mouth. "We're no longer slaves to what they call us, Tyrion," Sansa said, breathless and her pitch much lower than usual. Seductive—though he doubted she intended it to be. Stretching her hands to calm her shaking fingers, she closed her eyes and lowered her head to his. "What am I to you?"

The more she fidgeted with the stays of his pants, the more Sansa grazed his cock. Groaning, he shook his head. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I'll start, then," Sansa said, words more a gasp as he bit her earlobe. Their joined hands on her hip tightened. "The greater portion of the last decade has stripped me of my pack, Tyrion. Everyone's gone, and I only have you. Even in marriage, I won't be able to take your name, and I want no part of stripping you of yours."

Tyrion pecked her jawline until he reached her chin, lazily working his way back to her mouth. "It's not my name you're stripping me of," he said, a low growl building in his chest as she delicately shoved fabric to the side, the back of her soft hand brushing him.

Sansa's blush deepened, and she gasped his name. Rising on her knees, she moved her palm to fit on his shoulder, steadying herself, while he grabbed the base of his cock to line with her entrance.

The queen was bare underneath her nightdress. All the better for him.

Shifting his legs a little, he stroked her hand with his thump, his mouth hanging as he watched her over him. Tyrion swallowed and pushed down on her hip, helping her move through their lovemaking.

Cradling the base of his head with her hand, Sansa moaned when her slippery entrance grazed the head of his cock. "I wish I knew what to do," she said, eyes opening for him, revealing those magnetic eyes and a hint of frustration. Sweat beaded on her skin. "I want to be good for you."

"Fuck." Tyrion closed his eyes as she sank down on him. Mouth hanging, he did little to stop his moan. The more her cunt swallowed his cock, the faster his chest heaved and nostrils flared. She devoured his length until she held all of him hostage. Closing his agape mouth, Tyrion lowered his head on her chest. She was so fucking wet for him, and he hadn't touched her.

Much.

In this position, he remembered, Tyrion reached deeper within her, hitting her walls squeezing him perfectly. "Good will never be a word I want to use trying to describe you, Sansa."

Neither of them moved. Both simply blinked and shook against each other, until Tyrion adjusted them so that he was on his knees, sinking him deeper inside her. He looked up at her, claiming her neck with his mouth. Sansa panted, her free hand cupping his head as he took her breast in his mouth through her dress. Tyrion moved his hand from her hip to her ass, never once letting her go while he squeezed.

Withdrawing from her, Tyrion fumbled with the strings keeping her nightclothes prudishly intact. He wasn't as graceful as he would have liked, but he couldn't let her go. Breathing wildly, Tyrion groaned as he batted at her dress until it fell off one of her shoulders. Her breasts were small, but large enough for him to grasp in his hand. Youth had spared her no attention to detail. The firm mound in his grasp permitted her to cry out to the gods quietly.

"Everything you are…" Tyrion took her nipple between his fingers and kissed her throat as suppressed a scream, disguising it as a needy whine. Moving his mouth against her ear, he panted before whispering, "…is everything I need."

"Show me what to do, my gentle wolf." Tyrion's brows twitched as he lifted his head back. Eyes meeting hers, he shook his head until she cupped the side of his face. Smiling, Sansa kissed his brow. "Stark. Lannister?"

Breath hitching as she moved higher on his cock, she lowered swiftly, moaning and shaking against him. Moving his palm from her breast to her mouth, she sealed a sweet kiss at the center of his hand as she had many times before. Her hand moved to his wild hair, playing with it until she was content. A smile captivated him until kissed him.

"Husband. Wife?" Sansa said, swallowing as she dipped her head so that the bridge of his nose brushed his. Eyes closing, she sighed, humming a soft laugh. "We were always going to be much more than such simple words." When she opened her eyes, her lashes tickled his cheek. "We crafted our own path to each other. I was not meant to survive—not several things."

Rocking her hips back and forth, she bit her lips, looking to him for validation. When he nodded, she slowly ground against him, tormenting his patience and arousal all at once. She reached his mouth, exploring him. Their tongues touched, waging a delicate war pitting his impatience against her leisure. She moved their hands from her ass back to her hip, experimenting on him by circling her hips.

"You could have had me then, Tyrion, but you didn't. You could have been anyone else, but you aren't," Sansa continued, swallowing a moan as she shuddered against him. "You could have let her take her throne. You could have let her kill me."

Tyrion claimed her mouth again, but she pulled away. Grumbling, Tyrion dragged a finger over her exposed collarbone. "You vouched for Jaime when Daenerys was going to have his head cut off. You place faith in those you trust and love."

"Tyrion," Sansa whispered, halting her movements to capture his mouth. "I would kill for you."

Growling, Tyrion smothered her mouth with his, not ceasing until he nipped her smooth jaw. "You're as much a lion, then." He'd once said the same thing to Shae, back when he thought he was so in love with the woman who betrayed him. Brushing her hair back, he blinked under her scrutiny until he moved his other hand to her other hip, eyes darkening. "Fuck me, Sansa Stark. My ravenous lion."

Pushing her back, Tyrion slammed against her. Sansa's dress pooled between them, but she recreated his movements until they found each other's pace. Leaning back, he supported his body by bearing his hand on the rug, fisting it as she pounded onto him. She followed him back until her knees were flat against the ground.

Leveraging the stability, Sansa used his hand on her hip to balance as she sloppily took him closer toward ecstasy each time. Tyrion inhaled, the lingering smell of sex intoxicating him as he tried to laugh but groaned instead. He would never be conventional or pretty, so rough, raw, and abandoned sex was something he embraced.

That Sansa was leading him toward the light both surprised and excited him.

Though horribly mistreated and neglected over the years, she was a woman at the height of her prime. He would explore the depths of who she was with her for as long as she permitted him in her bed. Her eyes were closed, and her hair shielded them from the rest of the world. All he felt was heat—the fire and hers.

"Tell me your close, Sansa. I'm too close!" Tyrion shoved himself against her, meeting her halfway. Their drenched skin slapped together. In her inexperience, she would not know what other tricks she could use to torture him, enslave him. However, despite what he'd heard her say a few times, she _was_ indeed a quick learner. He was happy to enjoy her as she explored his body.

The fire cracked, and something in his mind shifted. He was the first man she had complete control of. Licking his lips, he pressed a kiss into her temple, muddled words slipping past his tongue as he encouraged her as she took him. Quickly, their pace sent them into a frenzy—one where they both chanted the other's name until his body tingled with the promise of a perfect release.

"Sansa, my beautiful lion…"

Sansa squeezed his walls as he thighs shivered. Gasping, she clutched onto his coat, violently shaking the fabric between her jittering fingers. Arching her back against him, she slammed down onto him once before chills rocked her body. "My wolf!" she whimpered quietly.

Her release encouraged him to take hold of the adrenaline course through him and raise to his knees as he reached around to grasp her ass. Wildfire ignited under his flesh. Using the last of his strength, Tyrion pumped in and out of her until his release sang in his ears. Shuddering under her, he threw his head back and chuckled, groaning like a madman feeding on pain.

Falling limp against the floor, Tyrion heaved against the floor, his free hand moving to stroke her hair. Their joined hands fell beside his head. They were still joined when he opened his eyes to peek up at her. Sansa bent down, sliding her lips over his. It was lazy, sensual. Moaning, Tyrion felt his limp cock stir inside of her. She sucked in air through her teeth as she shivered, pulling back far enough to rest on her elbow.

"Marry me, Sansa." Tyrion tightened his hand in hers, rubbing the backs of her fingers with his thumb. "Tonight."

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**[A/N]** The next chapter will definitely have the plot back on track. I apologize for nothing in this chapter or the last! :p

**Please review!**


	16. Sixteen

**_The Edge of War's End_**

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** I'm really happy you're still with me! Here's another chapter for you! Enjoy!

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**_Chapter 16__:_**

_Sansa_

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Midday came and went. Yet still, no one had disturbed them in her room except for a knock at her door asking to tend to her room, which she'd refused due to sharing her bed with Tyrion, who had recently remerged back to her room after needing a fresh set of clothes. He lay on her bed, eyes closed. However, he was very much awake. In his silence, he listened to her recount the most insignificant things about her life.

"What is your favorite color?" Tyrion asked as she wrapped up her detailed rationale as to why she preferred northern hemlines opposed to those found in the south.

Brushing through her long hair, Sansa's mouth twitched before she turned around in her seat. "What's yours?"

"Ah." Tyrion chuckled, readjusting on her bed until he opened his eyes to view her. "Red: the color of wine…and your endless hair."

"As expected of a Lannister," she replied, idly stroking her hair with her brush.

"Yes, well, I suspect your answer will be just as riveting." Tyrion sat up and moved so that his feet hung off the side of the large bed. Gathering his hands into his lap, he smiled. "Now tell me yours. I'm at the edge of my seat with anticipation."

A soft chuckle tickled Sansa's throat. Sighing, the queen smoothed her dress. "In general, I'd say blue. Specifically, I prefer either dark or pale shades."

Tyrion clutched his chest, dramatically gasping. "You shock me so!"

Sansa narrowed her eyes even as she smiled. Sharing a look, her thoughts eventually weighed her grin down. "Sometimes, though, when I miss my mother, I adore the color green. All her best gowns were green."

It was clear he didn't know precisely what to say, so Tyrion settled. "Catelyn Stark was a wonderful woman, a fierce mother, and a loyal wife."

"She died thinking father strayed from her. I'm not sure why he never told her," Sansa dropped her gaze, stilling her hand. Shaking her head, she sighed. "About Jon, I mean."

"Perhaps he felt it was best for Jon's sake."

Gripping her brush, the queen bit her lip. "I'm not sure I could keep such a secret from a husband I loved as much as father loved her."

"Our marriage will be different, Sansa. We will keep no secrets from each other." Tyrion rubbed his hands on his legs. "Always honesty, right?"

"Always," Sansa whispered.

The pin normally clinging to his jacket was missing from his left collarbone. Lingering at the empty patch of fabric, Sansa reached for the drawer nearest to her, she turned her back to him, watching the simple Queen's Hand pin gleaming in the limited light.

Behind her, she heard Tyrion shuffle off the bed and walk toward her. He directed her hair over the opposite shoulder and kissed behind her ear on her neck. Wrapping his arms around her narrow waist, he hummed a single note until he sighed. "I hear you're in need of a Hand."

"I can't give it to just anyone," Sansa replied gravely, features deadpanned. She twitched her brows up. "It's a lot of responsibility, so I must carefully consider all my options."

Tyrion laughed. "Yes, I'd imagine you have candidates lining your halls."

Shaking her head, the queen moved her hand atop his, rubbing until she laced her fingers in his. "I will need a few months at least to fully interview them."

"Care to begin with me?"

Sansa looked over her shoulder. "Full of yourself, aren't you?"

"An important quality for a position of prolific power." Tyrion kissed her cheek, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the temporary warmth.

"Could you handle such a position, I wonder…"

Taking his finger, Tyrion trailed his finger down her spine, lowly chuckling as she shivered. "It's funny…I wanted to ask the same thing of you. By now you've had me in several ways. How have I handled myself?"

Gulping, Sansa arched her back the lower his hand went. Breathing, she struggled to reply. "You…" Closing her eyes and leaning her head back until it rested against his, she gasped when her brain began to tingle. Opening her eyes, she gripped onto the pin, procuring it from the drawer, bringing it to her lap. "Tyrion…"

"When we're husband and wife, Sansa, there will be no more scruples or rules to keep me from you—day and night if that is what you wish," he idly promised, bending his fingers in hers and shove her body against his. "However, until tonight, you must be on your best behavior. Play with me."

The game and its unspoken rules all but flew to the wind in Sansa's mind.

Latching onto her lobe, Tyrion suckled until pain twisted with pleasure. Curling her toes, she moaned against him. "The job would require what exactly?" he said, continuing on in her game.

"You would certainly have to suffer through long hours with my company. I suspect I'd require many of your nights, too."

"Hmm…" Tyrion halted his ministrations on her earlobe and kissed her hair. "I'd have to renegotiate the schedule a little if I'm to keep my bride happy and occupied for the next several decades, but I do have qualifications if I could indulge you."

"I'm listening…"

"It would be my fourth role as a Hand. My first was to a vicious brat-king many believe I conspired to have killed. I, of course, did not—even if my wife at the time abandoned me, the poor, unfortunate dwarf who only looked guiltier afterward. The second fared worse, I'm afraid—as I actually _did_ conspire to have her killed. For good reason, I assure you." Tyrion kissed her shoulder.

"I shall spare you from the ugly details by moving right to the third time I was a Hand. It was a job I despised—a sentence, rather than a job. However, this king was honorable and fair—albeit a little…quirky."

Swallowing, Sansa turned around, so she could face him. From her seat, she was only a few inches high than him. Brushing through his hair, she smiled. "It seems you've had quite the adventure."

"No," Tyrion replied, meeting her hand in his hair and pulling it down to his lips. "I assure you my real adventure is only just beginning."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The couple could only enjoy their bliss for another few moments. The queen and her new Lord Hand were interrupted by one of the castle servants just as she'd pinned him and he'd pulled her into another passionate kiss.

Jon, Bronn, Podrick, and Tormund were all missing from the castle. Three of four, she'd suspected correctly, were found at the local brothel. However, when the servant had also mentioned Jon's name in tandem with the wretched place, Sansa knew at once she had to handle whatever it was he was thinking.

The Lord Commander of the Queensguard had obligations to see to the queen's safety. She certainly couldn't fault him for spending his time seeing to his needs; however, Jon's shift began hours ago, and he was still deep under pelts in Lysa's room of the brothel.

What she'd see if she lifted the covers she wished to leave out of her reality and imagination; however, he was her brother. Something was obviously amiss, and she'd been recovering the last several weeks to notice his problems. Guilt wracked her gut, but she couldn't force him to open up to her as she had to him. Over the last several months, he'd been able to get the job done.

At the very least.

Tyrion stood next to her. Just outside, Podrick kept watch to ensure no one entered the room to witness their queen in such a place.

Lowering her hood, Sansa sighed. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she shook her head. "What's left of my family…" The sounds of loud moans and screams of ecstasy prickled her ears, but she turned to look at the giant. "Spare me the details and tell me what happened."

Tormund looked down, joining his hands at his hips. Flashing her eyes to Bronn, she lifted her brow, waiting for someone to answer her question. Rolling his eyes, Bronn stepped closer to her. "We only meant to cheer the bastard up."

"How helpful." Features immovable, Sansa looked Bronn up and down starting from his shoes until she met his eyes again.

Tyrion moved his hand over Sansa's, stealing her attention. Fingers sliding between hers, he eased the back of her hand to his lips. Before she could do anything, her Hand released her to walk to Bronn. The queen steadied her attention on her would-be husband, releasing the breath she'd not noticed she had trapped until Bronn clicked his tongue. Sansa flicked her focus to the man and met his stare, which dripped with curiosity.

"Care to elaborate?" Tyrion said before Bronn's smile had a chance to bloom.

Shifting from one leg to the other, the well-dressed old man grumbled. "We took him out to loosen the tension. I've never met anyone nearly so grave _all_ the time," he said, maneuvering his hands to a ball on his hips. "A good drink never killed a man. Then again, a good drink is rare in such a bitter, young beauty as the North."

Tyrion laughed, eyes on Sansa as he cocked an eyebrow. The memory of having his mouth between her legs and bits of their other affairs burned her, stealing her words and breath as she shifted her knees inconspicuously underneath her large cloak. The man had the audacity to release the chuckle rumbling low in his chest.

Swallowing and arching her brow, she bit her lip. "Is something funny, Lord Hand?"

The little man curled his lips inward, biting the inside of his cheek and covering his mouth with a gloved fist. Tyrion had something clever, likely scandalous, to shoot in reply; however, he held it back. Whether it meant he'd share it the minute she left his vicinity or if that he would keep their discretion, she did not entirely know. Almost as if he heard her thoughts, Tyrion cleared his throat and moved toward her. This time, he didn't move to touch her. "Nothing with which you should worry, Your Grace."

Lifting her chin, she closed her eyes and looked back to the bed, where Jon lay face down. She was thankful for the dim light of the candles, which would hopefully conceal the color on her cheeks. "How is it possible that men have run the world until now?" she asked no one in particular. Joining her hands at her waist, she moved closer to Lysa dwelling under a single cloak. Keeping a comfortable distance, she nodded as the other woman bowed awkwardly.

"Y-your grace…" Lysa mumbled, fidgeting with her hands and looking at the bed with an uncharacteristically shy demeanor. "I'm so sorry for the trouble!"

"You're not the trouble," Sansa quickly replied, her tone curt and voice clipped. Not bothering to spare the men any more attention, the queen tilted her head and offered the girl a placid smile. "Have your services been properly compensated?"

A blush stained her cheeks, and she shook her head. "No, Your Grace! He enjoyed…my services until just a couple hours ago."

"It was just you two?"

"Yes, ma'am—Your Grace! He rejected all others." Lysa smoothed her unkempt hair.

Sansa bit her lip and turned to Tyrion, who stayed close to her. "My Hand will arrange reasonable recompense for your discretion," she said, voice low but stern.

"That won't be necessary."

Tyrion sighed, moving closer to the nervous girl. "Why?"

"He bought…my services indefinitely. He promised me accommodations in the castle and protection. It's all I require, Lord Hand!"

"With what money?" Tyrion scrutinized the poor girl, who clung to her cloak.

As she shifted her legs under it, she exposed her naked thigh. "No money. Just his word."

Sansa laughed, rubbing her face with her gloved hand. When Jon woke up, she would finally give him a piece of her mind. What she was primarily curious to know was why had a whore traded her body for a promise. The small-scale spy network she ran still had many holes, but locally, it was a pretty self-sustaining process. Why didn't she know about whatever trouble she wanted to flee from?

"She will come with us back to the castle," Sansa said, resigned to the twist of events. At the very least, the queen could inquire and formulate a plan if necessary. Turning toward the giant and Bronn, Sansa tilted her head toward her brother. "Gather my brother and whatever affects he brought and deposit him in his room. On your way there, gather one of my Queensguard to watch over him until he wakes."

Tormund blocked Bronn from approaching Jon. "I'll handle him," the giant man murmured, eyes directly on his old friend. "I'll take care of the girl, too."

Sansa nodded, throwing up her hood and leaving the room without another word. The snow crunched under her boots, and three other sets followed her to her horse. A wild, erotic shriek came from one of the nearby rooms, and Sansa groaned. The hood concealed her vision to the sides, but she saw their horses undisturbed.

Podrick joined at Tyrion and Bronn's pace, the three men conspicuously quiet as she led them back to their horses. Over the last several months, Winterfell's horsemaster had worked with Tyrion to outfit him with one who could fit his needs. Only recently, though, had the horse been able to obey anyone aside from his trainer.

Sunlight sparkled through the thick gathering of trees shading the area, highlighting the animal's brownish-red coat. Tyrion had named his horse Seeker around the time Sansa had settled on the name Whisper for her pure white companion. Before she reached her steed, Winter raced around her, capturing her in a frenzied circle until she bent down, a smile warming her expression as she pet the top of the direwolf's head.

"I left you at the castle," Sansa said, reaching around and feeling something attached to a small section of his long fur around his neck. She didn't pause, only bending down to continue to spoil the pup with her affection until the string eased from the fur. Conspicuously shoving a small folded piece of parchment into her glove, the queen stood.

The snow stopped crunching as the men reached her. Tyrion reached out to Winter, who started scratching as he immediately found the magic spot she could never seem to locate as well. "So much for secrecy." Sighing, Tyrion withdrew and moved closer to his bride. They glanced around them, noticing a few pockets of whispering townsfolk looking their way. "Troublesome creature."

"I doubt this means the end of my reign, Tyrion." Sansa brushed the side of his face, the prickly touch of his beard tickling her through her glove. "I can't abandon Jon."

Tyrion stopped her hand from withdrawing from him by pinching the edge of her sleeve between his fingers, gently teasing her wrist with the texture of his leather-clad touch. "You're still a queen. I could have handled this on your behalf."

"He's my brother," Sansa resigned, her argument a bit weaker than she'd usually settle for. Slipping her hand into his, Tyrion walked her to Whisper, only letting go once she was too far to reach. She adjusted on her horse as she watched him beacon Seeker lower, kneeling as he whistled once. The custom-made saddle he designed enabled him to securely mount without trouble. He really was so clever.

Both of them waited for Bronn and Podrick to mount their horses. Tyrion narrowed his eyes, laughing as he rubbed his opposite elbow, chuckling softly. "What is it, Your Grace?"

Sansa's mouth tipped upward. "You're the cleverest man alive, Tyrion Lannister," she said. Sometimes she used his full name to remind him of who he was. Although their kin's history was bleak and complicated, Sansa desired for him to have pride in whom he was. Tyrion was a Lannister, but the wars of their fathers were not theirs to bear. She maneuvered her horse so that rounded closer to Seeker. Whisper faced the opposite direction. Placing her hand on his thigh, Tyrion's relaxed grin widened even though his eyes narrowed. "You never fail to surprise me."

Podrick cleared his throat. "We're ready, Your Grace."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Overseeing the laborers and townsfolk below on the ground level, Sansa surveyed her people, memorizing each detail of their features she could make out from her distance. Ghost and Winter raced into the gates, a few women startling and shouting as their queen covered her mouth to hide her quiet laugh. The two direwolves stopped as Tormund escorted her brother from the castle to a barrel in a corner of the yard—still within the walls.

The giant all but dragged him through the snow, Jon's feet stumbling behind him as Tormund pulled her brother by his collar. The queen's smile fell and her features sagged the longer she watched them from afar, mouth hanging.

"You wanted to see me?" Gasping, Sansa shifted her hues, seeing Tyrion. Relaxing, she waited for him to join her at her side. His fingers laced with hers while his eyes bore in Jon's direction. "Despite all he's fought to keep safe, your brother is one of the few who has yet to find his way out of the Great War."

"I can feel him slipping away," Sansa whispered. Although half the day had already dragged by, Sansa felt as if it would never end. Where they joined, a fresh boost of comfort rushed to her heart, easing the tension in her face, though she still bit her lip.

Bringing her gloved hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss against it. "He'll come around," Tyrion said, inhaling the cool air around them and exhaling slowly. "At least I hope he does."

"Did she tell you anything?"

Tyrion dropped her hand, opting to clutch the low wood wall. Releasing her lip, Sansa flexed her hand, eyeing her Hand longingly. The need to have him close to her, to touch him, swelled in her chest. Was it the lovemaking that broke the last barrier between them? The queen was grateful that he wouldn't leave her after all.

"She gave me a name." Tyrion shook his head. "One Cayle Caege, a lowborn merchant's son from King's Landing."

"Do we know what business he has here?" Sansa moved her attention back to Tormund, who shoved Jon's face in a barrel of water for a few seconds until he pulled him back up.

"The reality of our financial situation was never going to stay hidden," Tyrion answered, tapping his fingers on the wall he leaned on. "Specifically the brothel has hit a crisis given the fact that only a handful survived."

Distant chatter beyond the walls around the castle carried in their direction as the wind picked up. Thankfully, her pelt kept the bulk of the bitter breeze at bay. It was only her face that felt like it would break off. Shivering, the queen nodded. "So he's an investor?"

"Apparently so." Running his hand through his beard, Tyrion looked to her. "Although the manner of how his mysterious inheritance ended up with him is where I'm most concerned."

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "If that's what concerns you the most, then why did Lysa seem so different? I recognize fear even when it's hidden."

"I'm afraid we simply don't know enough."

The small folded parchment in her pocket suddenly grew a hundred times heavier. Reaching in the pocket, she withdrew the note, which read: _'Meet me in the Godswood in two hours. Alone.'_

"I found this note tied to Winter when we left the brothel," Sansa said, offering the parchment to her Hand. Tyrion's eyes narrowed, but she gave him enough time to scan the words before saying, "Winter would never allow just anyone to get close to him."

"You shouldn't go, Sansa."

Looking to him, Sansa stepped closer and reached for his face, rubbing his beard as she always did. Her soft smile did little to ease lines on his forehead his wild curls almost concealed. "You know I have to."

Tyrion's eyes fell to her stomach until he closed them, leaning into her until his head rested against her. When she moved her hand away, he caught it, stripping her of the glove and pressing three needy kisses in her palm. "I know."

"Winter will escort me. These days, where Winter goes, Ghost follows. I'm bringing my dagger with me." Threading her bare fingers through his hair, she slipped her hand back in his and pulled him into an alcove hiding them from the watchful view of those about below. Letting her hand go, she breathlessly fell back against the stone wall behind her and slid down until she sat on a jutting outcrop. Stretching her hand toward him, she clutched his coat and exhaled, her breath visible between them. "Tell me what you're thinking."

Tyrion curled his shoulders forward, his chest caving as he sank to his knees. Pressing his lips together, he grumbled something intelligible and slowly stole a kiss. He pulled away, but it took Sansa a moment to open her eyes. "I can't keep my hands off you."

The corner of her mouth ticked upward. Sansa nodded, fingers tangling in his hair. Using her nails, she scratched his scalp as she pulled him back in, claiming his mouth. "We'll have to do better beginning tomorrow."

"It might be worse then."

Sansa snickered, the sound quiet and just for him. Together, they sat in each other's embrace and just took the other in. Whoever was waiting for her in the Godswood wouldn't be there for at least another half hour. "I'm confident we're both capable," she said, brushing his hair back. "Besides, I only want to be like this with you. Until we know what's going on, we'll need to find a way to separate business and pleasure."

"I shall pray to all the gods for patience, then." Brushing her arm, Tyrion closed his eyes and inhaled slower than he ever had around her, as if he wished to anchor himself in this moment.

"What?" Sansa's eyes searched his when they opened.

When he exhaled, it was with a content smile. "You never fail to surprise _me_, Sansa."

"Go on."

"Alright."

Tyrion pecked her lips and poked her mouth with his tongue, immediately gaining entrance. Sansa opened for him, and he cashed in the advantage tenfold. They both shut their eyes. Exploring her, he pulled away long enough to angle his head the opposite direction, somehow discovering a delicate part of her tongue at the back of her throat.

The queen moaned, the sound almost as low as a whisper. Tyrion flicked his tongue under hers and set her hand on his shoulder as he shoved her against the wall, dropping her glove from his other hand to cup her face. Arching her back for him, Sansa swallowed his moan stretched each other's mouths until she was out of breath. Parting, Tyrion brought her forehead to his lips, possessively spoiling her with quick kisses while she caught her breath.

Lifting her chin, he eased her back so that she could meet his dilated hues. His chest heaved, and he pressed another kiss against her cheek. "Damn them all for trying to break you, Sansa Stark. You were always so poised—so distant—I never thought you were capable of passion."

Sansa chuckled, the noise sounding more like a hitched sigh than laughter. "I didn't believe I ever would be, either," she admitted. "I'm not sure I would be with anyone else."

"When you were crowned, didn't you think of the fact that you'd eventually have to marry? To further your name?

"I guess I believed I would sort it out as the need arose." Sansa shook her head. "I was all alone. All of my allies were dead, driven out, or displaced."

Tyrion brought her into his chest, her chin resting on his shoulder. Wrapping her arms around him, she sank her face in the crook of his neck, finding the warmth she knew would be there. His clothes smelled fresh, but his skin was a bit bitter, reminding her they both needed to bathe before they married that night.

Tyrion rubbed her back. "When do you leave for the Godswood?"

Pulling away, Sansa pressed a kiss on his cheek. "Probably now if I'm to collect Ghost and Winter."

"I know the note specifies you to be alone, but I'm going to have Bronn stationed upon the castle wall." Tyrion palmed the back of her head and kissed her once more. "He's good with a crossbow from that distance. It would help me worry a little less."

Sansa smiled, nodding. "I'm going to be your wife tonight."

"And I shall show you more pleasure you know what do with until someone breaks down your door."

* * *

**[A/N]** What will happen at the Godswood? You should find out soon! :)

**Please review!**


	17. Seventeen

**_The Edge of War's End_**

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** Thank you for your kind words! Enjoy!

* * *

**_Chapter 17__:_**

_Sansa_

* * *

Prayers were something Sansa used to do eagerly as a girl. With each emotional, physical, and mental scar marring her body and soul, somewhere along the way, she'd grown to resent it. The life she'd witnessed had little to do with the gods as opposed to luck. When Joffrey drank the poison, had Littlefinger not plotted to whisk her away during the theatrics of the moment, unworldly and naïve Sansa Stark would have perished in King's Landing. Had her father had the ability to see through honor, to cut others who tread in his path, Ned Stark could have protected her.

The act of praying meant she had to face the reality that some dark part of her resented her father for being unable to make difficult decisions to keep her and Arya safe and not seeing the truth sooner. Sansa had only been a child, albeit a very naïve and helpless girl. The origins of her person far outmatched a man's in terms of privilege in such a masculine-driven world. Through an accident of birth, she'd resigned to relying on men to protect her. When her father's head rolled away from his body, the restrictions of propriety and gender eventually faded behind the will to survive.

Ned Stark was first her father. Honor and duty meant serving those you loved with dignity and pride in doing good for the sake of pursuing a better world. Ironically, it had been his duty and honor to send his head flying.

On the other hand, men like Petyr Baelish scratched, thrashed, and clawed to hold his fate steadfast in his own hands. Nothing was worth more than himself. Lip curling, Sansa hated that she so naturally and often thought of him. He'd shaped her into the woman she would remain for the rest of her life.

Good men accepted, resigned, and obeyed their fates. Bad men slaughtered, defiled, and violated others' fates.

Littlefinger had been neither good nor bad.

Those who disagreed greatly misunderstood him. Surviving the game meant one needed to equip certain skills one sharpened only with time, loss, and pain. The less one had, the more they wanted. The more they suffered, the worse they inflicted.

Petyr always crept in the shadows, aligning all the pieces to whatever his questionable scruples were what he designed to be right. Everything happened under others' noses without so much as a ripple to give his scheming away. If the rules changed, it was because he had rewritten them.

If the world were different, perhaps her father would have been cut out to survive to watch his family thrive and grow. However, the bad people meant that people like Baelish…and even her…would always need to exist.

Wiping a tear away, Sansa exhaled. None of it was fair. Not that her father was murdered, nor that she'd been forced to endure everything under Joffrey's rule…and even being sold off to Tyrion. The worst of it was that a man like Petyr Baelish had provided more for her than her father had the chance to.

Ghost's ear perked, and Sansa lifted her gaze from the snow to the tree, her back to whoever had desired her here. "That's close enough." Winter sprang up, whirling around in place to face the stranger, ears low and tail slowly wagging. Ghost yawned and growled as he turned around to face whoever was behind her.

"I said alone." It was a man, and his voice sounded like he had gravel in his throat.

Keeping her body still, she spared him a bored glare over her shoulder, seeing he was around her height and lither than most men in the North. His clothes were far too clean to be a common worker, but he still wasn't bundled up as well as he should have been. "I'm a queen," Sansa said, raising a brow and turning so that faced him. "That I came at all is a luxury I'm affording you." The corner of her mouth lifted. "Besides, they're only pets."

"Not them, Your Grace," he said, not stepping closer to her. "I'm referring to the man along the castle wall with a crossbow pointed in my direction." The stranger's light brown hair swayed as the wind passed them, and his bold green eyes bore into hers. "Regardless, I appreciate your time."

Whoever this man was, he knew how to play the game. That made him a threat. Winter moved to sit at her side, head bumping her gloved hands. Rubbing his ear, Sansa flattened her mouth, not indulging any stray thought to him. "What's your name?"

"There are more important questions which require answers, Your Grace," he answered, his smile slowly spreading as he took three steps toward her. "For formality's sake, you can call me Spinner."

The closer he moved toward her, the longer his hair seemed to fall over his neck. Ghost prowled lower to the ground, his teeth baring, as he moved two steps closer to the stranger. "I'll not tell you again. That's close enough."

Spinner held up his hands, his cocky grin faltering as he laughed, watching the larger direwolf apprehensively. "As you command."

"Why are you wasting my time?"

Swallowing, Spinner put his hands down by his sides and narrowed his eyes. "I've never wasted your time. I'm one of your eyes in King's Landing. The one who reported of the Lord Hand's indiscretions some months ago now."

The snow crunched under Ghost's paws as he crawled closer to the strange man. Sansa gathered his fur in her hands. "Easy," she ordered. The large beast was not hers to command, but his master served her, and that seemed to be enough for Ghost to walk back a little. "Let's assume I believe you," Sansa said. Joining her hands behind her back, she pulled her shoulders back and lowered her chin while exhaling. "Why are you here?"

Spinner didn't move or speak for a moment, only stood unresponsive searching her face for something she could not identify. Gulping, he squinted at her and parted his mouth, shuffling on his feet. "I found something you should see."

Sansa stepped toward him, hand sliding off of Ghost's back as she moved. Although her heart rattled in her chest, nothing on her features changed; however, her hands fisted behind her. "And you came all this way just to show me?"

"Have you noticed how sometimes messages don't reach the North?"

Sansa closed the distance between them as she withdrew the Valyrian steel knife from her cloak. Unsheathing it, she revealed the blade to the man before her. "My sister killed the Knight King with this dagger. Right here in the Godswood."

Spinner stared at the blade, forgetting about her for the moment. Eventually, he dragged his attention back to her. "Are you going to kill me, Your Grace?"

"Information is never free, Mr. Spinner," Sansa murmured, brow arching as she tipped the end of the knife at his chest. "What is it _you_ want? You know an awful lot about the affairs of the North for just being my eyes in King's Landing."

Spinner exhaled, his frown dragging toward his chin and bold eyes narrowing. "King's Landing is a shithole. Rather than send this information through the same compromised channels, I risk my life trekking my way to the North, let alone risking my life arranging this meeting." Crossing his arms, Spinner glanced to Winter. "Would I have been able to approach your wolf if it thought I meant you harm?"

"It's a pretty explanation, but why should I believe you? Do you know how many people want me dead?" Sansa held her hand steady, the edge of the blade cutting through the top layer of fabric on his chest. "What details did you gather before traversing leagues with vague information?"

Spinner leaned into the blade, flinching when the pain of her knife superficially cut through his skin. Only mere inches from her, Sansa held her head high as he released the tension in his face. "I heard whispers across King's Landing. Curious rumors were all, I thought. Still, I chased and chased…until someone caught me." Rubbing his neck, Spinner looked away from her. "I almost didn't make it out alive, but I was able to outwit him at the last second, fat fellow. After I ransacked his corpse, I found numerous letters addressed to you. Whoever he was, he's fed your chain false information a time or two."

Sansa narrowed her eyes, dipping when he withdrew parchment, parts of it browning and torn but mostly intact. "This doesn't mean I trust you." Swallowing, Sansa shoved her dagger back into the sheath and depositing it back in her cloak pocket. Plucking the missive from Spinner's hand, she backed away, allowing Ghost to act as a barrier between him and her. As she unfolded the paper, her brows dipped. "I don't understand," Sansa said, eyes darting across the page in her hands. "What language is this?"

"I'm not familiar with it." Spinner rubbed his and shoved his hands in his hair. "It could be nothing, but I'd never forgive myself if it wasn't nothing."

Nodding, Sansa folded the parchment and shoved it in her glove. The queen snapped and both direwolves stuck close on her heels as she began walking away. "Don't approach me again. Not until I know more."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

Before she stepped out of earshot, Sansa sighed. "I'd start with town. Look hard enough, and you'll find work and shelter."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

Bows and curtsies bombarded Sansa on her way back to the castle. All the way back, people everywhere held her in their gaze. The longer she casually strolled in their scrutiny, her elbows clamped further into her hips. She wanted to squish herself from existence. Shoulders tight and lip trembling, the queen sustained a modicum of her steel-like composure. However, once within the walls of her childhood home, her impenetrable armor cracked with each step she took.

Mouth agape as her steps quickened, Sansa trailed her hand along the stone walls, stumbling as she rounded corners. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she sucked air through her teeth, tripping over her feet. She stabilized herself by shoving both hands on the wall, breathing until her chest heaved slower than her heart raced. Brows flat, the queen continued her pursuit toward the library. Others would find her eventually, but Sansa expected she'd have long enough to clear the room, if needed, and find the tome she sought.

When she arrived, she bit into her lip to keep the tears from falling. Rushing through each aisle, she found no one. Risk-taking was hardly worth knowing she was alone. The library had several doors and even more places to hide if someone truly wanted to spy on her. Distracted, Sansa ran her fingers over the books on the shelf, plucking two books on ancient languages from it before she exited from a different door, one that put her in more convenient access to her office.

Several servants tried to stop her in her haste, but Sansa ignored them all, focusing on tormenting her bottom lip to keep the tears at bay.

By the time she reached the hall leading to her office, Sansa broke out into a sprint until she was safe within the familiar room. Tossing the books onto the larger table, she whipped out her blade and looked around the room. When it was obvious she was alone, Sansa slammed the end into the wooden table, the blade standing erect by her hand.

Slipping her glove off, Sansa fidgeted with her hands opening the parchment. Smoothing the paper against the table, she flung open the two books she'd hauled up here with her and flipped through the pages, carefully analyzing the note with the pages.

Until she recognized a single word matching between them both.

Folding the parchment, Sansa clutched it in her ungloved hand and skipped ahead a few pages, revealing nothing in anything she recognized. Releasing her lip, she swiped her tongue across her mouth, tasting blood. "No…" Using her dark glove, she held the back of her hand against the afflicted spot, pulling away. "No!"

The world was simple. Survival was simple. All she had to do was maintain composure, and no one would know what she was thinking. No one could predict her, or know her thoughts. Composure meant she controlled the game.

Survival and control were always mutually exclusive.

The tears fell without her permission, and blood dripped onto one of the pages of the book she leaned over. The walls of her chest expanded and deflated as a pace that made her head fuzzy.

Sansa was no longer the stupid girl held captive. She was the queen in the North. While her family wasn't complete, she'd found Tyrion. He fit so easily in the puzzle that was her heart. The piece her family held was thought to have been decayed, but he'd infused life to it, empowering her heart to rest.

Tyrion knew all sorts of languages. He was a clever man who'd outlived her twice over. With his experience, he was bound to at least recognize what language the ink staining the abused parchment was.

What were the odds of a good person waltzing up to her just to help her? While possible, Sansa never knew kindness without a transaction of sorts. Neither Tyrion nor Sansa often mentioned his time spent as Daenerys' Hand, and she certainly didn't know how well he read or spoke whatever language the parchment read. In her bones, she knew Tyrion was connected to this letter. Whoever Spinner was or represented wanted Tyrion to see this letter.

Sansa needed to pull it together. Queens couldn't protect her people and those she loved while carrying out a proper mental breakdown. No matter the technique she used to exercise the calamity destroying her resolve, nothing seemed to ebb the storm within her mind. Moving the back of her hand to cover her mouth, Sansa looked up. Her own body worked against her.

Tyrion was all she had left. He anchored her in times where she might otherwise be lost. Jon barely felt like family these days, and her other siblings were too busy living their own lives or tending to their own responsibilities to aid her any longer.

If the gods were watching her, they certainly enjoyed her misery. She doubted they'd appreciate her wrath.

Killing Lord Baelish had accomplished nothing. Sansa was still a slave to a game at which she'd never prevail. To the victor, the spoils went. Here she'd gone and spoiled the only taste of true freedom she'd likely receive.

The urge to fling her arms over her desk burned in her chest, but Sansa no longer gave into theatrics. It would be just another mess she'd make. Snapping her eyes closed, the queen shook her head and unfolded the parchment a final time, her shaking hands rocking the paper through her blurred vision. Staring at the unfamiliar penmanship, Sansa scrutinized the page—as if the longer she looked at it something would shift into place in her mind.

The war's end should have been different for her. No longer under the hand or influence of those who only wanted to use her name or birthright, Sansa Stark had gambled: and won. Now, not only was the game back in play, the other player, or players, was an unknown. Her spy network was compromised, and everyone loyal to her left was still in King's Landing.

Perhaps not, since supposedly someone there conspired with another party, likely the foreigners the Dragon Queen had come to Westeros with or their sympathizers, to do whatever this missive detailed.

Wiping her lip, Sansa closed her eyes and exhaled, her nerves burning her bones, which rattled against her surging pulse. Breathing deeply a few more times, the queen slipped back through the cracks and into her mind. The more she concentrated, the stronger her connection grew with the only place that had kept her safe.

If this letter was a ruse, Sansa would do everything to protect Tyrion—would pay any cost if it meant keeping him safe. If her life was in danger, she would once again have to harness her wit to exploit any weakness she found.

Bran wasn't here to ask for guidance; however, she did know he checked in often enough to know about her relationship with Tyrion. Arya was leagues away, so her subterfuge would require a different manner of stealth. Luckily, she had a bag filled with a few tricks.

Shoving away the drying tears on her cheeks, Sansa looked to the table. She wasn't alone anymore. Tyrion would help her make sense of this, and together they would survive. Thrive.

The door sprang open, and Sansa's breath caught only for a moment. Recollecting her sanity, she moved to the table, leaning over and pointing to the pages in the book open. "Tyrion," she said.

Cutting her off, Tyrion rushed to her, grabbing her hands in his. "Sansa! Are you alright?" Stroking her hair back, he searched her eyes and swallowed, brows dipping as he traced her swelling lip. "What happened?" he asked darkly.

"Later." Sansa removed herself from his grasp to point the words on the open page. "What language is this?"

Hands swayed down to his sides, Tyrion sighed. His mouth moved the longer he dragged his gaze over the page. Grabbing the book, Tyrion moved closer to the window, opening it for more light. "It's High Valyrian," he murmured.

Sansa threw chopped wood into the fireplace, reaching for the tools needed to start a fire. When the fire started, Sansa grabbed the long fire iron, stoking it until the flames poured their heat over her. The more she busied herself, her wild thoughts seemed to calm. Brushing her fingers across her lower lip, Sansa didn't see much blood left on her self-inflicted wound. Plucking off her remaining glove, she swallowed, focusing on the parchment as she unlatched her cloak and sat in front of the fire.

Behind her, Tyrion erased the distance between them. "Why am I reading about ancient laws?"

"Because I needed to know for certain you could read this," Sansa whispered. Her bare fingers smoothed out the worn parchment before she held it out to him. "I don't know what this says."

Slapping the tome shut, Tyrion set it off to his side while he grabbed the letter. "What do you think it says?" he asked before his eyes began feasting on the text.

"That someone's trying to kill you."

"People have wanted me dead, since I was born, Sansa." Tyrion's body tensed, pausing the breath he worked into his chest. His throat bobbed several times as his eyes widened and his back straightened. "Where did you get this letter?"

"Why? What's it say?"

"One of us has to stop answering questions with more questions," Tyrion said as he fixed his hues on her. Rubbing his the side of his neck, he exhaled. "This letter was written in Westeros. I've seen many authentic documents written in High Valyrian in my time, and very few foreigners could match the strokes perfectly. This document I can read, but there are several mistakes that give the culprit's homeland away."

"What's it say?" Sansa reached out, clutching Tyrion's pants as he continued reading. "You can only stall for so long."

Tyrion's eyes glimmered in the firelight. Joining her hand, he sighed. "Someone's planning to assassinate you." Gripping the letter tighter, he narrowed his lids, shaping his eyes into a sharp glare down at the page. "While not addressed to him, Grey Worm's name is mentioned to whomever this letter was intended."

Skin ashen, Sansa tightened her shoulders, not looking at him. "Let them try…"

"Sansa?"

Seconds ticked until she was finally able to meet his stare. Tyrion set the letter on top of the book and rose to his knees to close the gap between them. Brushing her cheeks with his thumbs, he pressed his mouth to hers. She responded to his tenderness, hooking her hands under his and cupping his shoulders. They opened for each other, leisurely exploring until they altered their angle. When they pulled away, Tyrion clutched the hoop over her heart, stroking the cool metal until he leaned into kiss it.

He whispered, "I will die a thousand times over if it means keeping you safe."

"We're going to live a long and happy life." There was no way she could keep the promise, but she needed him to play along. "I simply won't allow the gods to take you unless we go together."

"You're the most powerful queen if the gods bend to your will."

The door flung open, and Sansa startled, quickly calming when Tyrion sprang up, turning to shield her. Reaching for his hand, the queen peered over his shoulder, seeing only Podrick heaving. "Your Grace," he shouted. "The king is riding North."

"How soon will they be here?" Sansa shot up to her feet, brow quirking.

Podrick clasped his throat as he struggled for air. Hunching over, he said, "A few hours at most."

"How is it possible no one reported this?" The fire cracked just as the wind outside roared by the open window. Thinning her mouth, Sansa shook her head. "So much for a working spy chain."

Sharing a grave exchange, Tyrion opened his mouth and licked the top row of his teeth. "It's worse than we thought."

"When is it not?"

"So much for marrying tonight."

* * *

**[A/N]** I'm really excited about where this story is heading. I'm planning for it to be quite a long ride. I've thought about splitting it up into a new story at some point, but I want to contain this to just one.

So buckle up.

**Please review!**


	18. Eighteen

**_The Edge of War's End_**

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** Winter is coming. I promise! In the meantime, please make sure you read chapter 17. I posted it, but I suspect some didn't get or receive any email.

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**_Chapter 18__:_**

_Sansa_

* * *

Three of the queen's gowns were lined in fur, enabling her to forego her cloak and pelts altogether. One had been specially made for her coronation day. The other two were for receiving guests. By now, her wardrobe ideally would have grown, but feeding her people and securing her walls were more important than vanity.

The front of the dress flowed looser than her other gowns a few fingers higher than the tops of her ankle boots and flowed lower until it tapered to a short fishtail train. Like her crowning day gown, she wore a black iron fixture over her chest, branching across her torso like tree limbs. Reaching only one shoulder, the other side of the dress rooted a tasteful gathering of black fur swaying as she moved closer to the castle doors.

Sleeves the shape of inverted teardrops trickled down as delicate black flowers embroidered the pale blue fabric in a similar fashion to the other ensemble. The high collar both kept out the cold and hid a few deep cuts left from Ramsay's aftermath. All her gowns were tailored to keep the secrets of her body hidden.

Caged between her sleeves, her small, feminine waist accentuated above a skirt thicker than any other dress she currently owned. The train rustled against the stone floor until she stepped on the rug within the entrance of the castle. Guards standing on either side of the closed doors bowed before waiting for her command. Nodding, the guards pulled the doors open, a gust of wind blowing past her shoulders and scattering her smooth tendrils. Four thin twists gathered low on the back of her head, where a braided rose perched. The weight of her simple, elegant crown helped to angle her chin and find the poise required of a queen.

Stepping outside into the fleeting light, Sansa held her eyes on the approaching caravan, catching glimpses of Jon as she glided passed him to join Tyrion. Her brother gaped at her like she was the best-cut blade. Donning the Lord Commander armor she'd commissioned for him, he followed closely behind her, walking in the perfect line. Whatever Tormund had done with him had brought back some life in Jon's features.

Stopping where Tyrion stood, she joined her hands in front of her. "Why are there so many soldiers trailing behind the caravan?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the most luxurious of the carriages as people brought around Bran's chair.

"He's hardly here to wage war," Jon answered, shifting as he stood on her other side.

The three most powerful people in the North all lined in a single row, while their neighbor's sovereign lowered into his chair. While daylight had waned, there was enough left to appreciate the decadence and refinery of the carriages.

Tyrion inched closer to Sansa. "Your Grace, you're the image of perfection," he whispered.

Leaving her brother's caravan, Sansa's eyes sank, capturing his with a small grin. Tyrion wore navy, accentuating the contours of his features. Bundled in many layers underneath his sleeveless coat, he wore a belt just above his hips. Although naturally short, he appeared slightly taller than usual without the long cloak weighing behind him. His leather-gloved hands fanned as he groaned, signaling that it was time for her to look anywhere else.

The smile teasing her mouth grew wider as she looked away. "You look quite dashing, Lord Hand."

The castle staff lined the yard as more carriages rolled in, brown mud marring the somewhat snow-covered ground. Brienne walked at the same pace as her king, who was rolling his way slowly toward her. The Lady Commander looked well, and Sansa released a breath as she smiled, stepping toward her once valiant protector. However, before she could address her, she needed to bow and greet her brother, which she did. "I wish I'd heard about your journey sooner. We would have been better equipped to accommodate such a large party."

Bran offered her a ghost of a smile, his features neutral and familiar. "It's been quite difficult to reach you, Your Grace."

Nodding, Sansa raised her brow, though she searched the crowding yard. "You're most welcome home, Your Grace." Stepping aside for the servant pushing her younger brother, she waited for him to pass before turning to Brienne. "We should talk later," she murmured.

Lady Brienne glared down at Tyrion. "Most certainly, Your Grace," she said, straightening her shoulders to display her true height to the little man.

Sansa turned gracefully on her heel—her three companions close behind. Once inside the castle, she led them to the Great Hall, where her servants would have guided her brother. Brienne matched her pace. "Lady Commander," Sansa said, untangling her hands and letting them fall loose at her sides. "Tyrion is not only a Lord, he is my Lord Hand. Soon, we shall wed." Clearing her throat, the image of him between her thighs made her shift and look down. Affording a few seconds to right her features, Sansa looked to the Lady Knight. "He makes me very happy. You will treat him with the same respect you bestow to me whilst you're our guest."

"Y-Your Grace, I meant no offense!" Brienne gasped and stepped in front of her before Sansa could move into the hall.

The smile warming the queen's neutral features didn't meet her eyes. "There are very few people I trust, Lady Brienne. I consider you a valuable ally. More importantly, my friend," Sansa said, reaching for the tall woman's hand. "There is no offense here."

Brienne scrunched her features, lifting her chin as she raised her brow, trying to analyze the queen. "As you say, Your Grace."

Jon touched Sansa's elbow. "I need to speak with you, Your Grace."

"You will have my ear quite soon, brother," Sansa replied, eyeing him up and down before walking around Brienne into the Great Hall. "When I have time to spare." Pulling at the fingertips of her black leather gloves, the queen slowly walked to where her brother sat.

Bran fixed his attention on Sansa, a monotonous grin spreading his lips. Where a happy, young boy who loved to climb once existed, only a hollow shell occupied the mind behind those dark eyes. "You mirror the poise of the late Cersei Lannister."

Sansa moved her head in Tyrion's direction. The woman was one object of her hatred, but she was dead and only the small scars her son inflicted on her were there to prove she ever existed. Still, she was Tyrion's sister. Sansa would never know if marriage bed vows would ever be stronger than blood. "Why have you brought thousands of soldiers North?"

"They're not mine."

Sansa sighed, stripping her hands of her gloves. "If not yours, then to whom do they belong? Is there another southern royal I don't know about?"

Bran switched his eyes to stare at Tyrion, who straightened under her brother's scrutiny. "I have named Tyrion a hero of the Six Kingdoms, thereby restoring honor to house Lannister. Accompanying the honor were flocks of homeless and hopeful men, women, and children to King's Landing—all wanting nothing more than to rally behind their champion. This army is yours, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion's eyes bulged until his featured twitched squishing inward as he shook his head. "I'm the lord of nothing. I traded Bronn my life for my birthright."

"That's not how your bannermen see it, Lord Hand," Bran's smile grew slightly. "To settle the Six Kingdom's debt to House Lannister, you will receive a healthy portion of your family's legacy."

"Why are you doing this?" Tyrion's chest heaved, and his eyes brimmed with emotion. Balling his hands at his sides, her intended looked down at his boots. "Need I remind you of all the carnage House Lannister wreaked across the realm over the last decade?"

"The only Lannister I see is the one I've named hero."

Sansa laughed, her stomach prickling. Curling her lip, she stayed the tears threatening to spill. She was tired of being watched by men who thought she couldn't do anything by herself. The North was hardly the epicenter of wealth and life, but it was hers. Her people depended on her to rebuild their home. "How am I supposed to accept such generosity?"

Bran's smile grew, making the queen's hands shake. "I'm not offering anything to you."

"You're joking, right?"

Bran sighed. "I'm the Three-Eyed Raven. Joking is no longer something I do."

"You bring endless gold and thousands of men North. Where would we put all of them?" Sansa crossed her arms. She could find a way to build her people houses, feed the hungry, and innovate her walls for future generation without the help of men sorting out Northern problems. "What could one man do with so much?"

Tyrion tilted his head up toward her, stepping cautiously like she was a wild animal. "Fund and strengthen a small kingdom…" he said, holding his hands out to her as he continued to walk to her.

"No…" Sansa looked up at the high ceiling of the Great Hall. "The Starks have ruled the North for thousands of years without so much interference from anyone."

Jon stepped forward. "Our people starve and shiver in their beds at night. Our food stores maybe have enough to last us two…maybe three more months with the rate our hunters gather," her Lord Commander countered, reaching for her and spinning her around to face him.

"I'll find another way." Shoving her brother away, Sansa leaned forward as she looked to Tyrion, shouting, "There's another way."

"No, Sansa." Tyrion's expression crumbled until he reached her. Taking her hands between his, he searched her eyes. "We already planned on marrying tonight. Be my wife…let me help you."

"Since I was a little girl, I've obeyed men whom I thought could help me." Sansa's lip trembled as the tears began to fall. She hated that she cried so much around Tyrion. "I've married for protection and politics once before. I was bartered to marry another man with a pretty army." Snatching her hands away, Sansa straightened. "Just this once, I wanted to marry for love," the queen whispered, saying nothing as she rushed out of the Great Hall.

Jon and Tyrion hollered after her, the echo of their strong voices carrying her name through the castle. Grabbing her skirts, the queen rushed through her home, not escaping the incoming memories of her stumbling down the hall years ago—alone and hood covering her bright hair.

Evading the lot of people in the yard, Sansa expertly maneuvered through the halls until she reached a side entrance into the part of the yard she'd hurried across. The stairs leading up to where she'd fled led her back down the moments leading up to her escape from the only place to have made her feel safe.

Slipping under the threshold out into Myranda had aimed her arrow at her. Sansa's eyes welled as the scene unfolded before her eyes again. Reek shoved her over the ledge, the impact claiming her life. The gates flung open as ghosts of the past whispered across her mind. When she looked to where Reek had stood, Theon's image was there next to her in the present moment. Although her hands were at her sides, the familiar curve of his hand warmed hers.

Tears fell down her face as Reek slipped away with each step Theon took toward where they jumped. The image guided her in reality around a corner until, finally, she stood where she once had when she thought the possibility of suicide was more attractive than living through another day of Ramsay's brutality. Her mind replicated Theon as she took his hand. Both shared a look until they inevitably jumped from their height.

Reek had been their only casualty that day. With Theon reborn, Sansa believed again that she could live on—that she was strong.

Theon's image faded away, and she wiped her tears away. Only then did she hear several pairs of footsteps. Eyes narrowing, Sansa sighed, raising her chin as the wind passed them. Voice muddled together until she made out Tyrion, Jon, and Brienne arguing about something. None of them knew what she'd lost during the Long Night.

"Theon stood next to me when we jumped from here. The snow had piled. It's the only reason we survived." Sansa turned to them. Tyrion stood next to Jon, while Brienne towered behind both. "Ramsay called him Reek…One night after an especially punishing night, I woke and begged Reek to help me escape." Walking closer, she looked back out into the white abyss of the land she now ruled. "Reek was terrified of him. He slept in one of the cages my late husband kept his hounds."

Jon growled. "Sansa, stop."

"My wedding night, Ramsay had Reek stand by the door and watch as my husband took me…from behind like a bitch. Reek heard my screams, he cringed when I called out for father and cried when I begged Ramsay to kill me." Sansa caught Jon's face between her shaking hands, so he would be forced to meet her eyes. "Ramsay shoved his…into my mouth. I was desperate, and I bit down. Hard, like it would make him and the pain stop."

Her brother gripped her by her shoulders, shaking her body. "Please!" His face was wet.

"Reek fell to the floor and overpowered my screams as Ramsay ordered him to watch him cut various parts of my body—one for each year I was alive." Sansa clutched Jon's cloak. When I begged Reek to help me, he told my late husband. You can only imagine what I endured that night. I won't make you say it—not like I did with Littlefinger."

"Sansa," Brienne choked. Although her features matched the brilliance of a valiant knight, her eyes gave away her great sadness.

Her eyes searched her brother's. "I thought you were the last living Stark in this whole world. You never asked me what I wanted. Truly," Sansa muttered, her voice cracking. "When I had to crawl back to the man who'd sold me to the Boltons for you, I set aside my pride for what I promised to be the last time. But then you bent the knee to a queen we didn't know."

Jon covered his face, words incoherently spewing out of him.

"Under the circumstance, you had little choice. I understand all that. You didn't even write to see what I had to say! You always act first and think later. You're a good and honorable man, but you will never understand what I endured to try to get my home back. You just sold me off again to a Targaryen with three fully grown dragons."

"For the last time, I was named King in the North when I bent the knee to Dany!"

"But I am your sister!" Sansa shouted. He shook, peeking up at her. His eyes were a gathering of dragon's fire and bloodlust. Parting her mouth, the queen searched his eyes. The same words slung between them. "Will it always be like this between us? Will I always be the mirror reminding you what you did? For Westeros? For your family?"

"Sansa—"

Gripping his jaw, Sansa forced him to look at her again. "I'm not the queen you love. I'm not your queen. I'm born not of fire, but I am blood, cousin. I'm the queen you're left with," she said. "I do not want you to spend the rest of your life resenting what you've done."

No one spoke, but Jon clasped his hand over hers. His eyes turned to fleeting embers as winter's wind collided against the fire.

"The trick is to thank the ones who've hurt you." Swallowing, the queen kissed his forehead. Jon closed his lids until he was ready to stare back at her. "They only make you stronger."

Breathing through his nose, Jon's hand tightened on hers as his features broke. "You thank the bastard who did all that stuff to you?"

"If I didn't, I might throw myself at the nearest whore and drink myself into oblivion," Sansa murmured.

The Lord Commander shivered against Sansa's palm. Reaching for her arms, her brother braced himself as he struggled to breathe. Sweat glistened his skin. "If I could kill the woman I love—vowed to serve—who am I to fool myself hard enough to live a life in honor?"

The word hung between them. Honor had been all he carried with him growing up—under the Stark banner. Although raised a Stark, the influence of who he was born to be crippled everything that had made him who he was. "I don't hate you, Sansa. It's not you I resent." Jon tore himself away from her, knocking his shoulder against Brienne.

"I know what people see when they look at us," Sansa shouted after him. Her brother paused, head turning slightly. Sansa put her hand over her heart. "Little Dove," she said, her mouth trembling.

Brienne flinched when the queen looked at her. "Brienne the Beauty," Sansa continued. The Lady Commander curled her fists as she looked out into the white wasteland beyond the castle.

Smoothing her skirt, Sansa took in a deep breath, struggling to take in her capacity of air as it filled her lungs. Jon turned to her. "Ned Stark's bastard."

Tyrion's hues drowned when he lifted them to her. Nostrils flaring, he shook his head. "The Imp," he supplied.

"We are only what we see," Sansa eventually said, attention spanning between the three of them. "A wolf. A lion. A dragon. A Knight." Sansa stepped back into the spot she'd jumped from. "Leave us, Jon. Brienne."

After a moment, Tyrion and Sansa were alone. The wind filled their silence. Sansa dropped her attention to his hands, which fisted then straightened several times on his way to where Theon once stood. His steps were slow, hesitant, and his hand fluttered until his fingers rubbed his thick beard. "If it pleases you, I can reject Bran's offering."

"I'm just tired of being unable to provide for my people on my own."

"Sansa, you did provide for them. Not only did you secure Northern independence, but you also spared them countless years of suffering when you told me of Jon's birth," Tyrion fought, eyes flashing down at the thick pile of snow below them. "Your people loved you—not Daenerys. When Jon's heritage eventually made its rounds across the kingdoms, a rebellion in your name in the North would begin its infancy. Another war to busy ourselves with."

"Had she lived, she would have killed us both."

"We the traitors…" Tyrion said, raising his empty hand to a ghost of a toast.

"Men are just outside the walls singing your name."

Tyrion adjusted himself until he leaned against the wall lining the opening. "I wish they wouldn't. I'm no longer a lord."

"You're a Lannister."

Sighing, he looked to her. "Why should I be proud of that?"

Sansa moved a hand to her womb, reaching for his shoulder. "While our children will be Stark in name, they will carry your blood," she said. There was nothing about her body that felt different. Perhaps she'd never carry a child. A sweet smile brightened her grim expression. "You were raised with the likes of Jaime and Cersei, yet you're you. You will show our children who you are, not what they wanted you to be."

"You have more pride in Lannister name," he said, hand slipping over hers on her belly. "Had fate been kinder, you make for a fine one."

"You were always kind to me."

Tyrion grabbed her fingers, pulling the pulse of her wrist against his warm mouth. "Is that why you love me?" he whispered. Sansa reached for his lips, and he took her middle finger between his teeth, gently squeezing the sensitive flesh until she inhaled. "Because I'm kind?"

"You want to know why I love you?" Sansa's dress blew as the wind carried past, her train moving off the stone underneath her feet. "Do you really think so low of yourself?"

Tyrion's brow roused, ticking as she rotated her wrist to hold his bearded chin. They held each other's attention as she dragged her index finger down his throat and into the fancy coat he wore. They joined only by her fingertip to the center—high on his chest. "I'm naturally low, Your Grace."

The words painted a delicate blush on her cheeks as his throat bobbed. A shiver ran over her body—partly because of winter's chill, but mostly because his eyes dropped to the center of her thighs. His eyes told her what he wanted, and she found the longer she stared at him, she hungered to have him warm her again.

Other women got to lead normal lives. Part of that life was intimacy. Wives bore for their husbands, but some of them lived a life with love. Those women knew how to please their husbands. Sansa didn't know if she would be among those women, but Tyrion had opened the door for her. It was an uncharted world for her to explore.

Sansa's mouth parted while she threw her focus back to the wild, wintery land of her homeland. "I love you because you took my hand—back in King's Landing and in the Crypts. Theon took it when he left here with me."

"Sansa, please accept Bran's offering." Tyrion touched the small of her back, rubbing until she looked down. "I don't think you need a Hand's advice in this situation. You know that times are hard. You've gone to great lengths to do what any of your brothers could not. The North is a free and independent nation with a worthy ruler and warden."

"It's pride, Tyrion. It runs in my blood"

"It was what tore your family apart, Sansa. Don't repeat history just to die in a starving land."

The queen blinked slowly as she forced the air from her chest. Licking her lips, she shook her head. "Why do you love me?"

Tyrion fell back against the stone, staring at her like an arrow had pierced her heart. "I came into this world and within minutes, people hated me for killing my mother. As my sister so eloquently said it, my life in exchange for her mother…was a waste." Although he smiled, his eyes watered. Throat bobbing, he exhaled. "I waited thousands of nights to meet you, and I suffered through thousands more till I realized what I've waited my entire life for is you."

"Tyrion…"

"Oh, I don't want pity, Sansa. I've drunk and fucked my way through countless years of this anguish." Reaching for her hand, he brought her fingertips to his mouth again. "I was beginning to believe I was a waste until I kissed you those months ago. For the first time in my life, I rival mountains, and it's because of you."

Sansa lifted her gaze to the horizon. "I married you before your gods years ago, and we finally consummated that marriage," she said, lacing her fingers through his and meeting his hues. "Tonight you will marry me before mine, and we will consummate our new marriage."

Tyrion folded his fingers, squeezing until she picked up her skirt to kneel before him. He brushed her hair over her shoulder. "This marriage is a love match, Sansa. For once, this has nothing to do with gold or politics."

"All right, Tyrion." Sansa eased into his embrace as he wrapped his short arms around her narrow waist. She brushed his wild, blond curls back and chuckled. "You steer a hefty bargain, but I accept."

"I've always bargained for my life," he mused, pecking her nose. "And you, Sansa Stark, are the love of my life."

"I will see you when the sun is down, my wolf."

Scratching her back, Tyrion kissed her jaw. "And I shall count each minute till then, my lion."

* * *

**[A/N]** I'm so excited about the wedding! Eek! Till next time!

**Please review!**


	19. Nineteen

**_The Edge of War's End_**

**[AUTHOR'S NOTE]** The next phase in the story arrives! Enjoy!

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**_Chapter 19__:_**

_Sansa_

* * *

The last time Sansa walked toward the Weirwood tree in the Godswood, she'd been dressed in a lush, white ensemble worthy of any queen. Though no crown weighed over her temples, she'd become the Lady of Winterfell, her home and heritage.

What a waste it had all been. The maidenhood she'd clung to had once been her only armor—the last defense. When it was ripped away from within, a part of Sansa had withered against the fray.

Breathing life back into them, petals began flashing color again. Tyrion Lannister, in most ways, had brought her back to life. Tears brimmed in her bright eyes as a smile warmed her freezing skin the closer she walked toward him.

There were neither stools nor any capes. Their joining would be before the gods of her father, cultivating the long line of Stark blood running through her. Jon tucked her hand in his elbow as he ushered her toward the tree, while Bran sat close underneath, waiting for her alongside her Hand. Brienne and Podrick stood to her left, while Bronn stomped his way to his friend. Tyrion wore a red ensemble, tailor-made back in King's Landing and another gift by her strange king-brother.

Sansa was still out of earshot when her brother squeezed her gloved hand. "I'm sorry about earlier, Sansa."

Tearing her eyes from her intended, Sansa stopped, turning to face her brother. Brushing hair from his face, she raised to her toes even though she stood taller than him to kiss his forehead. "You are a Stark. Now and forever."

Jon stepped back, eyes watering as he inspected her. Though he'd seen her in the same gown since receiving their younger brother, he still looked at her like she was living, breathing Valyrian steel. "You look just like your mother, Your Grace." Inhaling, he smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing the plush fabrics there. Searching her eyes, Jon swallowed. "I don't like Tyrion, but I swear—here and now—to protect and care for you…as my sister and my queen."

Lifting her fingers to his chin, Sansa surveyed his dark eyes. The darkness couldn't hide the remorse and shame there. They could sort out their problems later, but she couldn't stop herself from chuckling as she threw herself into his arms, sharing an embrace similar to the one when they'd reunited. "Father would be proud of you, Jon."

His arms wrapped around her tightly as he lifted her off her feet. "I'm not sure if it's true."

She adjusted her cheek against his hair, closing her eyes and curling her fingers on the thick black fur covering his shoulders. Inhaling, she smelled sweat, iron, and snow on him. "I love you, Jon. Aegon Targaryen…whoever you are. I love you, brother."

Jon hushed her, stroking her back as he set her feet back on the ground. The snow crunched beneath her feet as she turned her body, slipping her arm back into his. He lifted his chin, and she nodded with a smile. "I want you to remember this moment, Sansa, for when you're feeling like shit or if you ever think back on…Ramsay."

Matching his step, Sansa settled her gaze back on Tyrion. "What do you remember when you feel…poorly."

Both of them slowed down when they were steps away from the others. Sighing, her brother looked to the sky. "Somewhere in time, there is a moment when I ride Rhaegal along the sky. For a brief moment, she's there with me in my arms, and I'm not alone."

"Take a few days to recover, brother. You will have my ear from then to the end of days," Sansa whispered, eyes slipping to Tyrion. "Now, I marry my Hand."

Brienne moved behind Bran, rolling him closer to Tyrion when Sansa and Jon completed their walk to the Weirwood tree. The queen stared at her Hand while her younger brother said, "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"

Tyrion's eyes didn't move from hers. Her Hand didn't look to Jon when her Lord Commander replied, "Sansa of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. The trueborn Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"Tyrion of House Lannister, the Hand of the Queen and the Lord of Nothing." Tyrion parted his mouth, a hint of a smile offered to his bride when he shook his head until he flashed his eyes to Jon. Stepping forward, Tyrion chuckled. "Oh, right. Who gives her?"

"Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Master of War, and…brother of the queen."

Bran focused on his sister. "Your Grace, do you take this man?"

Stepping forward, Sansa looked at nothing but her Hand. Dragging her brows toward her nose, a smile twitched her mouth. "I take this man."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

With the food stores lacking the supplies worthy enough for a king's feast, Sansa wanted no fanfare or drama—not like the last time they were wed. Servants swayed from one end of the castle to the other as Tyrion escorted Sansa to her room—their room now, she supposed. None of his things were there because their wedding hadn't been formally announced. Only hours had been provided to the few people who knew about it, so no time had been spared on bothering with decorations or other special expenses.

The North couldn't afford much. That ended once she'd accepted Tyrion as her husband. When she saw her parents again, Sansa would need to explain so much to them—if that stuff mattered in death, of course.

Upon concluding the ceremony, Tyrion had plucked her hand and stolen her from Jon, rushing back toward the castle. There was nothing quicker than a Northern wedding. She'd never seen Tyrion walk quite so quickly as he did now. Biting the growing smile, the queen chuckled when he waved off several servants who bowed to them. None of the servants quite knew what to do with him. Was he Lord Hand or My Lord? In reality, he was both the Hand of the queen and Lord of Winterfell.

"Enough." Tyrion pulled her around another set of bowing servants.

Giggling for the first time in years, Sansa readjusted her hand in his. "I thought you'd be used to being a Lord by now, husband."

"I am the Lord of nothing."

"You've married the Lady of Winterfell, did you not, my little Lord of Nothing?"

Tyrion stopped them, eyes dark as he walked her backward against the wall. "When we reach our room, I might shock you when you discover I'm not all that little."

Sansa squirmed against the wall. Brows flattening, she exhaled, parting her mouth. Looking around, the queen searched for any stray ears. A few servants remained along the dark hall, so Sansa kept the retort in her mind, sealed underneath a blush warming her features.

Silence wasn't her preference, but there were those who conspired for her life about. More than that, the spy network that had been loyal to her had been more than compromised. Those responsible had successfully cut the North off from the south. The common spy or thief would understand totally what a warg was.

"Tonight we are husband and wife. The rest of what we are or whatever titles we hold may sweep us away in the morning," Tyrion whispered, sealing his words with a kiss on her gloved hands. Slipping the leather from her fingers, he waited until her skin palm was bare before nipping her thumb with his teeth. "Let me give my wife the wedding night she always deserved."

Staring down at him until her skin scalded, Sansa swallowed. Biting her bottom lip, the quick air passing her throat filled her lungs until she expunged it all out with as much haste. The queen's palm dampened as she winced, the tingling fingertips prickling up her arm until her toes curled. Mouth parting, she stared at their joined hands, while she conjured thought back into her mind. She was not practiced with flirtatious flattery like the women who'd showed her a woman's secret weapon. Cersei and Margaery were better suited to talking and seducing men.

"Sansa?" The queen flicked her eyes to his. Tyrion smiled up at her, clasping his other hand between his. Checking down the hall, he stepped closer, lowering his voice before he whispered, "We're no longer sneaking around. We're married now. Don't think about anyone else but us tonight. If you want to shake the castle down tonight, my lady lion shall roar."

Lifting her skirt, Sansa knelt down and shivered. "What if others hear?"

Tyrion shrugged. "It's part of the fun," he said, brow lifting with his lopsided grin. "Besides, you're the queen."

"It's not me…"

Tyrion cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her earlobe. "Do you know who you are?" he asked, pressing his mouth to hers, her husband pulled away only an inch or two. Their breath tangled. "Not as a Stark. Nor as a queen. Who is Sansa?" She shook her head, and clutched his coat near his heart.

Gulping, the queen exhaled, loosening her fingers on his coat until she slid them to his stomach. Wrist shaking, Sansa dropped her eyes to look at where she had him. Licking her lips, she narrowed her eyes. "I don't know," she admitted. "I wish I could let go, but I don't know how."

Tyrion pressed his hand against the metal caging her chest. "It's time to set the Little Dove free."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The stairs leading up to her quarters were lit brighter than the rest of the castle. Two candles on each step on either side, Sansa gasped, smiling when she stopped. She eyed up the rest of the steps before laughing. "What's all this?" she asked Tyrion, who moved in front of her up the steps.

When had he had the time to arrange such a small splendor?

Tyrion faced her, his features gentle and relaxed. Reaching for both of her hands, he kissed both of her wrists before bringing her hands to his chest. Up two steps from her, Sansa had a better view of his tender eyes, which searched hers. "A-a thousand candles—all representing the days we spent apart," he muttered, voice weak. His features trembled as he spun back around and slowly took the rest of the steps. When they reached the long hall leading to her room, wax dripped along the floor as a legion of burning candles raged against the usually grim corridor. His hands shook in hers as he led them toward her room.

The door of her room was open, and even in their distance the light spilling from the room and into the hall nearly blinded her. Though her mouth parted and she held a breath, no words poured between her lips. Sansa swallowed, trailing behind her husband. When they reached the threshold, Tyrion turned around and walked backwards into the room, dragging her and kicking the door closed. The fireplace raged, but two standing pits roared from either side of it. "And the gathered flames to mark each night we'll spend together. From this night, until the end of my days."

Sansa glanced over to the blazing fireplace, noticing furs splayed out over another until they stacked as high as her mattress along with a pitcher of wine and two goblets. "It's beautiful."

"I'm glad you approve." Behind her, Tyrion tore his cloak off of him and threw it on the bed. "It's the best I could do given the lack of time we had."

A shadow halved her face when she looked to him. A laugh tickled her throat, and she met her hands on her waist, looking down at them as she played with the metal encaging her torso. "I don't know why I'm still so nervous…"

"Why are you?"

Sansa's cheeks warmed. Looking into the fire, the queen sighed. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to hear me blather on…"

Tyrion moved to her, resting his hands on her hips and kissing the black iron around her body. Raising his hands, he searched around her back and sides for the release. When he found it, he smiled gently up at her. "You can tell me anything, Sansa," he said, slipping the cage from her body and walking it over to the bed.

The queen's shoulders slid forward as she slouched. She'd been in it for hours. How Cersei had worn them for long stretches of time was a feat. The furs looked rather comfortable, but her real prize was the wine just behind them. Her boots clicked against the floor until she lowered to her knees gracefully on the pelts. She poured herself a glass of wine, asking, "Where is Winter?"

"I've had him put elsewhere for the night," Tyrion murmured, his voice growing louder the longer he talked. Eventually, his footsteps disappeared, and he was right behind her.

Back to him, the queen threw her head back and took a few sips before setting the goblet down to busy herself with her boots. "It's quiet up here without him."

"Somehow I doubt that will last for much longer."

Sliding out of one of her boots, Sansa paused until she collected her senses and worked on the other. The front of her dress was where her stays and ties were. Yet, it was her back that faced him.

Tyrion guided her hair over a shoulder and slipped against her back, pressing his mouth to her long neck. "Sansa, please tell me what's the matter." He rubbed her back, his hands soothing away a sliver of nerves.

"This feels different than last night…and this morning," Sansa whispered, a gasp catching in her throat as he ran his fingers over her shoulder and down to her breast.

Tyrion kissed her ear, moaning. When he couldn't reach the gown's ties, he groaned and reached under her arms. Her narrow waist made it possible for him to clutch onto the strings. "Yes, all five times."

Color warmed her cheeks, but Sansa leaned her head back against his. "Tyrion, how do I let go?" The heat from the fire surrounding them made her skin glisten, and she'd never wanted to be stripped bare more in her whole life.

Fumbling with the last tie, Tyrion kissed her temple as his hands eased the thick gown off her shoulders. Her underclothes compressed her chest, her breasts feeling more sensitive than they ever had against the tight fabric. Sansa lifted up as he moved the gown out from under her, casting it to their side. "Your wounds need healing," he said, the meaning lost on his wife.

"Face me," he instructed. When she did, Tyrion busied himself with the fastenings of her undergarments. "I've never seen a body quite like yours, Sansa." Tyrion's hands trembled against her arms, fingers tracing each scar as they passed over them. He withdrew from her and tore off his coat. When he stripped himself down to his undershirt, Tyrion paused, trailing his hands over her breasts before he eased the fabric apart.

Her breasts were small, and she didn't know if that was good or bad. It wasn't just her breasts exposed to him. Dozens of small and deep scars traversed her body as he drank the sight of her in. No matter how much of her he'd already seen, Sansa crossed her arms over her chest until she met his gaze. "What does that mean?"

Instead of answering, Tyrion eased her back and ran his mouth over every area of her body available to him. He sucked on her skin until it pinched, spending several seconds to a minute everywhere his mouth trailed. As he worked down her body, he shoved her undergarments lower until they gathered at her knees.

Sansa gasped when he neared her sex, disappointed when he moved back up her body. His mouth ghosted over where he'd already spoiled with small pecks and bites, rising higher until he reached her neck. Sansa wore garments with high necklines, and he knew that. Latching at her throat, Tyrion rocked against her body, permitting her to stifle a moan. "We have nothing to hide, Sansa. You're my wife and my lion," he said against her skin, pulling away to look at her. "Roar, if that is what you wish."

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The morning light burned her eyelids. Grumbling, Sansa reached for her husband, feeling only pelts. Brows flattening, the queen patted the furs on both sides, realizing Tyrion was not with her. Opening her eyes, she slid a hand atop the fur covering her body over her breasts, unused to the cool air hitting her naked body.

"Tyrion?"

Sitting up, the queen looked around the room. Her husband was nowhere to be found in her vicinity. However, a plate of lemoncakes along with a note lingered just off the pelts. A smile stretched her lips. Yanking a treat from the tray, Sansa lifted the letter, scanning her eyes over the familiar script.

_'My Lion, I woke up earlier than you and couldn't wait any longer. Take as long as you need before you come looking for me. I'm sorting out the matter of my inheritance and supposed bannermen with Bran. It should take a few hours. Rest, my love. Your Wolf.'_

Wild hair spilling over her shoulders, Sansa closed her eyes and bit into treat before sighing with a smile. Stretching, the queen stood up, seeing her underclothes already laid out on the bed for her. Walking from the furs, Sansa trailed her fingertips over the inside of her arm. Humming something, she began to dress, eventually settling on a gown she could slip in and out of quickly should her husband find her later.

When she was ready, she twisted her hair in a loose side braid and slid her Valyrian dagger in the hidden pocket of her cloak. Hands gripping the door handle, Sansa opened the door, stepping outside. Once she was beyond the threshold, someone slid behind her and clamped their hand over her mouth and held her arms down.

Her scream was muffled. Not even an echo carried through the surrounding area. Writhing against the strong body behind her, she tried to move her head loose, but the attempt failed. Tears gathered in her bright eyes, and she tried stopping the man by planting her feet to the floor, but he just pushed her forward no matter how much force she used in her knees. Walking backward against his force, Sansa wriggled again in his hold, causing him to stumble closer to the wall, where a table with an old vase sat.

The queen bumped into the small table, knocking over the vase until it shattered on the floor. Sansa grabbed onto the man's clothes as he moved closer to two of her guards further down the hallway. Tears fell over her face as she wailed out another subdued scream. Neither of them were bloody, but she didn't know if the darts in their necks carried lethal poison or not. He carried her body down the stairway and approached a hall, where intense growling erupted to their side.

Checking her left, Sansa saw Winter, who rushed toward them, howling until it nearly deafened her. Covering her ears, Sansa stumbled away from her captor when he pushed her away, her direwolf toppling over the man. Hands shaking, she felt around for her dagger until she unsheathed it and whipped it out in front of her.

"Help!" Sansa cried as she ran further down where Winter had come. The further she went, the more guards lay prone on the cold stone castle floor.

Hands caught her arm, and she whirled around, flinging her knife at whoever touched her. "Watch it, Your Grace!" Spinner seethed, teeth bared. Checking around the corner, he wiped her face and checked her body over. "You need to come with me!"

"Tyrion!"

"It's not your little husband my boss wants!" Spinner hissed, covering her mouth. "He just wants to talk." Reaching in his pocket, he withdrew a cloth, muttering a lazy apology before taking hold of her until her attempt to shout dwindled as the world turned black.

**— — — — — — — — — — —**

The world felt shaky the more it slipped beyond her subconscious. Sansa felt her throat vibrate before she heard her groan. Her ears rang, but the small candle by her bedside nearly blinded her as she opened her eyes. Cringing back into the bed she lay in, she shoved her face into the scratchy pillow. Lifting herself from the mattress, she rubbed her eyes, waiting for anything to slip back into her memory.

Shooting up from the bed, Sansa squinted around at the dark room, tucking her legs to the side as she felt around for anything she could use as a weapon. "No. No…please." Stretching, she felt the handle of a fork, immediately grasping it and throwing her arm out before her. Throwing the blanket off her body, she struggled to her feet, using the nearby wall to steady her until her mind sharpened.

Someone had striped her of her pelts, gown, and boots. Whole body nursing a shiver from her skull down to her toes, Sansa swallowed. "H-hello?" she whispered. A muffled noise sounded from somewhere on the same level. Taking the candle, Sansa bit her trembling lip and shoved the dim light toward the direction, illuminating a door further along the room. Setting the fork on a nearby table, Sansa moved the light close to her body, checking her undergarments for tears or stains.

Nothing.

Turning toward the door, Sansa clutched the fork again. Quick, shallow breaths made her head feel fuzzy, and she closed her hanging, rattling mouth to try and dull the noise she unconsciously made. Her bare skin prickled where the thin fabric did not cover, but she would escape with or without her belongings if she needed to.

As she took each step, the muscles in her body tensed, cramping as if to stop her from going any further. Tears spilled down her face. Footsteps from a floor above her made her freeze. Sansa was not a knight, an assassin, or a soldier. If a fight should be required, she had to be careful of how stupid she would need to be. If a child grew in her womb, Sansa couldn't run around risking being hit too much.

Someone rushed down rickety wooden steps to her level, and Sansa blew out the candle, and her eyes adjusted to the darkness as the steps stopped just outside her door. She tiptoed against the wall off to the side of the door. Readjusting her grip on the fork, she held it to her side, though her shaky fingers made it hard for her to leverage her proper strength.

The door swung open, and someone stepped inside. Sansa stepped behind, thrusting the fork at their back, but they spun around, wrapping their strong arms around her body. A warm mouth grazed her ear, and a man whispered, "You're safe here, Your Grace." The voice was soft like velvet, warm like burning embers, and smooth like the silks she'd worn in King's Landing.

"Impossible…" Sansa whimpered as she lost feeling in her knees.

The room he moved them through was not quite as dark, and as he guided them up the stairs, Sansa saw the glow of a bright fire under the threshold of the door at the top of them, where the man pounded on the door three times. Once it opened, her captor released Sansa, who stumbled into the room. Checking her side, the queen recognized Spinner sitting at a table next to a closed door, perhaps to another room. Her back remained to the man.

"Sometimes, when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game…" the man whispered, walking closer toward her until she stepped forward.

Sansa fidgeted her shoulders, feeling her captor's body warmth behind her. "I said that in front of a few dozen people…tell me something only he and I would know."

A hand caught her bare arm above her elbow, thumb rubbing the cold skin there as she nursed a shiver down her body. Sansa slowly closed her eyes as she swallowed, cringing from him where his hands touched. The man brought her back against him, and her lip trembled. "There is no justice in this world," he murmured into her hair. "Not unless we make it." His voice broke.

Sansa tore herself away from him, walking toward the fire. "Where are my clothes?"

"Spinner deposited them in the opposite direction," her captor said. Clearing his throat, he continued. "Your assassins aren't quite as smart as they believe they are."

Whirling around, Sansa rushed toward the man, the back of her hand slapping his skin. The impact caused her hand to squeeze in agony until she rubbed it generously. "Neither are you…Petyr."

* * *

**[A/N] **Did any of you suspect this twist? Leave me your thoughts about what you think may happen next! See you in the next chapter!

**Please review!**


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